Shawnee Bride

With two paddlers, the canoe soon gained on its mates. Clarissa sensed the excitement among the other young braves as they turned to gaze at her, staring openly at her russet hair and pale skin. Resolving to be bold, she stared back at them. This, at least, gave her the opportunity to study her captors.

Earlier that day, she had observed that Wolf Heart, with his black hair and sun-burnished skin, could have passed for a full-blooded Shawnee. Now she saw how wrong she had been. He was far too large, for one thing. The Shawnee braves were compact and wiry, without an ounce of extra flesh on their bones. The rich coppery hue of their skins could never have come from the sun alone. The color seemed to glow in them, like light flickering beneath the surfaces of their bodies. For all the terror their sharp gazes struck in her, Clarissa had to admit that these Shawnee were beautiful people.

One of the braves called out, laughing. Wolf Heart’s reply was brusque, almost angry. What had the young man said? Had it been something about her?

She risked a glance back at Wolf Heart. He was sitting in the rear of the canoe, the muscles rippling in his arms as he drove the paddle into the water. His hair streamed back in glossy waves from his impassive face. What was he thinking? Why wouldn’t he look at her?

Fear tightened its cold grip on Clarissa’s throat. Her eyes gazed out at the sun-sparkled water. Her ears heard the laughter of the paddlers and the squawk of a passing crow. It was a sham, all of it, she knew. Death and danger lurked beneath the peace of this golden afternoon. Wolf Heart’s face had told her so.

The three canoes had drawn abreast now, and suddenly a shout echoed across the water. The braves leaned vigorously into their paddles. The canoes surged forward with a swiftness that made Clarissa gasp. It was a race! A race to the village!

She strained forward, caught up in spite of her fear. The canoe in which she was riding carried the most weight, and thus rode lowest in the water, but this handicap was balanced by the power of its paddlers. Even Wolf Heart had flung his strength into the contest, his mouth tightened in a grim line as he drove his paddle into the water.

The speed of the canoes became more labored as they turned into a narrow tributary of the Ohio. Now they were moving upstream. The bronze limbs of the young Shawnee gleamed with sweat. Their backs rose and fell with the strain of fighting the powerful current.

Just when it seemed they were all beginning to flag, the pockmarked brave behind her—Wolf Heart’s friend—started to sing. Clarissa felt the hair rise on the back of her neck as his thin voice rose to a high-pitched wail then dropped abruptly into a guttural, rhythmic chant that the other paddlers swiftly joined. The canoes surged ahead with renewed vigor, driven by the throbbing beat of the song.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Clarissa saw that even Wolf Heart was singing, although not with any great enthusiasm. She watched him furtively, her own spirit reflecting the blackness that had settled over him with the arrival of the canoes. If only she could talk with him, but that, she knew, would no longer be possible. He had withdrawn into his Shawnee self, and even now he was far beyond her reach.

Turning away from him, she gazed ahead to where the river curved and vanished behind a low, wooded bluff. A fresh breeze cooled her face. She inhaled deeply, flooding her senses with the faint but unmistakable aromas of wood smoke, roasting meat, tobacco and hominy.

Her ribs tightened sharply as if someone had jerked a noose around her. The very smells she was savoring meant that the Shawnee village could not be far. Soon she would know what her fate was to be.

The brightness had faded from the day. The sun lay a finger’s breadth above the trees now, blurred by a haze of low-lying clouds. Soon it would be dusk, then nightfall.

Clarissa filled her gaze with the dying light, with the deepening blue of the sky, the pale green of budding trees and the soft earthen red of spring willows. These she would hold in her memory to save for the time when darkness closed around her.

She did not expect to see another sunrise.

Wolf Heart’s village was nestled in the lee of the bluff, overlooking the river. Cook fires flickered in the gathering twilight. Smoke curled from the roofs of loaf-shaped bark lodges that ringed from a larger building made of logs.

As the three canoes glided toward shore, Clarissa could see people running down the path to the river—children of all sizes, women, some with babies in their arms, and a few men. They clustered along the bank, pointing and jabbering. She turned to ask Wolf Heart what they were saying, but the coldness in his eyes withered her halfformed words. She would get no answers from him—not in front of his people.

But what did it matter? She needed no interpreter to know that the people clustered along the bank were talking about her, exclaiming over her red hair and pale skin. She held her head high, battling the urge to hide her head beneath her ragged skirts.

Wolf Heart and his pockmarked friend had paddled the canoe in a half circle, rotating it so that when the small craft touched land, Wolf Heart was able to leap out and pull it onto the beach. Clarissa, now in the rear, turned to meet his stony gaze. His head jerked toward the village, an indication, she guessed, that she was to climb out of the canoe and follow him.

Only when she tried to stand did she realize how weak she was. Dark blotches swam before her eyes. Her cramped legs threatened to buckle beneath her—and would have, perhaps, if the pockmarked brave had not caught her arm. She allowed him to steady her as she climbed over the edge of the canoe and stumbled on to the sand. His leathery hand released her cautiously. His curious eyes followed her as she lifted her head and, summoning the last of her strength, tottered up the slope on her blistered, swollen feet.

The Shawnee people were all around her now. Inquisitive fingers caught her hair, tugged her skirts and poked at her strange white skin. Panic tightened its stranglehold around Clarissa’s rib cage. She fought back a scream as one wrinkled crone seized a handful of her hair, yanking so hard that Clarissa feared she was about to be scalped.

Terror exploded in her. She spun wildly, flailing at the groping hands and peering faces. She wanted only to get away, to breathe, but they were clawing at her limbs now, their sheer numbers dragging her down. She felt herself stumbling, falling.

“Wolf Heart!” The cry tore from her fear-strangled throat. “Wolf Heart!”

Suddenly he was there beside her, his arm catching her waist, lifting her as she went down. Clarissa heard his voice speaking quietly but firmly in Shawnee. The people were listening. They were backing away, clearing a path.

She sagged against his shoulder, trembling as they moved forward together. “It’s all right,” he muttered, leaning close to her ear. “They won’t hurt you. They’re only curious.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” She gripped his arm, her broken fingernails pressing anxiously into his flesh.

“That’s for the council to decide.”

“And when will they do that?”

“Tonight. Maybe tomorrow.” He spoke tersely, his voice revealing no trace of emotion. “You’re to be given food. Eat it all. Rest tonight while you have the chance.”

“And tomorrow?” She swung back to face him, ignoring the pressing crowd as she forced him to meet her gaze. “Tell me! What happens then?”

Something flickered in his eyes as he looked down at her, then his gaze hardened. “It is forbidden to speak of it,” he said. “You will know when the time comes.”

Clarissa’s taut nerves frayed and snapped. “You insolent savage!” she hissed with a fury she had not known she possessed. Her hand went up, and she would have struck him if he had not seized her wrist. Fury blazed in the depths of his cold blue eyes.

“Never do that again,” he whispered, his voice a menacing rasp. “Now turn around and walk—unless you’d rather be tied up and dragged!”

Stunned by his ferocity, Clarissa did as she was told. Anger fueled her strength as she stalked up the slope of the bank toward the village. She felt his looming presence behind her, sensed it in the parting of the crowd. Wolf Heart was clearly a respected man in this savage place. But it was equally clear that he would never use his influence to save her. From this point on, she could depend on no one but herself.

Chapter Five

The sounds, sights and smells of the village were all around her. The acrid scent of wood smoke blended with the savory aroma of simmering beans, corn, squash and wild onion. A wolflike yellow dog sniffed at Clarissa’s leg, then backed away, growling at her alien scent. From inside one of the long bark lodges, a woman’s voice was crooning what might have been a lullaby.

People seemed to be everywhere—working, eating, resting or simply staring at her in undisguised fascination. The younger children, many of them naked, cavorted around her unafraid, their soft black eyes dancing with excitement. Even the women were lightly dressed, some in long fringed buckskin chemises, others in nothing but beads and short leather aprons. From somewhere beyond the clustered lodges came the nicker of a horse.

“Here.” Wolf Heart stopped before a small barkcovered hut. There were several of these, clustered close together in the shadow of the spacious log building she had seen from the river. “For prisoners,” he explained curtly. “This one is yours.”

She stared at him.

“Go inside,” he continued as if he were talking to a backward child. “You’ll be safe as long as you don’t try to leave.”

“And if I do try?” Clarissa feigned a bravado she did not feel.

“You’ll be caught. Your feet and hands will be lashed together behind your back and you’ll be forced to lie that way all night.” His expression softened, but only for the space of a heartbeat. “Do you want to live, Clarissa?”

Her exhausted body had begun to shake. Her legs quivered beneath her, threatening to buckle. She battled the need to sink against him, to draw strength from his broad, hard chest. “Yes,” she whispered, trembling, “I want to live.”

“Then you must do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Is that clear?”

She stared up into his face, only half-aware of the Shawnee milling around them. Her lips tightened as she swallowed and nodded.

Wolf Heart exhaled raggedly. The fading light cast his features into sharp relief, making them look as if they’d been hacked from rough stone. “Go into the hut,” he said. “Eat the food you’ll be given. Then try to sleep.” His eyes narrowed. “No matter what happens, whatever you hear—or think you hear—stay inside and don’t look out. Do you understand?”

Clarissa barely had time to nod again before he shoved her through the low entrance and dropped the deerskin flap behind her. Terror clutched at her as she stumbled into the darkness. She had been fighting fear all day. Now that she was alone, danger and despair finally came crashing in on her.

Clutching her knees like a frightened child, she crouched in the center of the small space, fearful of what might be lurking in the deeper shadows. Her shoulders shook. Her throat jerked in spasms of tearless weeping.

Time passed, how much time Clarissa could not be sure, but all at once she was startled into full alertness by the rustle of the hide that covered the hut’s entrance. Firelight glimmered through the narrow opening, silhouetting a low figure that had come inside and was moving toward her.

“Wolf Heart?” The words strangled in her throat. This was not Wolf Heart. It was not anyone she knew.

Clarissa shrank into the darkness, muscles tensed to spring at the first sign of attack. “Don’t come any closer!” she hissed at the hunched, shaggy-looking form that was edging toward her. Her broken fingernails clawed at the hut’s earthen floor, scraping out a handful of dirt. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but tossing it at the intruder’s eyes might at least give her the advantage of surprise.

She was reaching back with her arm when she heard a thin cackle of laughter. In the next instant, the mouthwatering aroma of roast meat and vegetables assailed her senses. Her hand unclenched, releasing the dirt back to the floor. Wolf Heart had said she was to be given food. This creeping presence who had frightened her so was nothing more than an elderly woman bringing her a meal.

Still wary, Clarissa edged deeper into the shadows. The crone spoke to her in Shawnee, her ancient voice raspmg like the stone wheel of a scissor grinder. “We-sah,” she said, thrusting out a bowl made from a hollowed gourd. “We-sah!”

The old woman did not appear dangerous, or even unfriendly, but Clarissa had endured a long and dreadful day. Famished as she was, she could not bring herself to reach out and take the food from the gnarled hand. She cringed like a captive animal, refusing to move.

Only when the woman had backed out of the hut and gone, leaving the bowl on the floor, did Clarissa summon the courage to creep forward. The stew, or so it appeared, was still warm. Its fragrance floated into her nostrils, triggering hunger pangs so intense she almost moaned out loud.

Her hands groped for utensils in the dark space. Finding nothing, not even a napkin, Clarissa managed an outraged little sniff. How on earth did these people expect her to eat? With her fingers?

Apparently so.

Salivating in spite of herself, she poked a tentative fingertip into the stew and licked off the juices that clung there. The earthy taste was so rich it made her head swim.

She used her thumb and forefinger to pick out a small chunk of meat and taste it. Venison—she had eaten it before, at the fort. And here was corn, onion and a slice of vegetable that smelled like squash…

Suddenly she was picking up the bowl, tilting her head back and scooping the stew into her eager mouth, making tiny animal noises as she chewed and swallowed. Clarissa had never been so ravenous. Only the fear of getting sick again kept her from bolting it all down at once like a hungry dog.

Within minutes she had finished off every morsel and cleaned the bowl of juices. Abandoning all pretense of manners, she licked her fingers and wiped them dry on the ragged remnants of her skirt. Crawling forward, she pushed the empty bowl under the deerskin flap. She did not want to give the old woman an excuse to come in and startle her again.

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