Cherokee Storm

by Janelle Taylor

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

In this highly sensual tale of forbidden love and passionate surrender, New York Times bestselling author Janelle Taylor makes her much anticipated return to classic Native American romance on the frontier--irresistible, fiery, and everlasting. . . 1756. Traveling west of the colonies with a small party, Shannon O'Shea loses her way in the wilderness, soon drenched by driving rains and forced by powerful winds into the shelter of a cave. Stripping quickly, she is drawn to the flickering warmth of a fire deep within, but she stops cold--surely she must be dreaming. Before her stands a Cherokee brave, tall and broad-shouldered, scarcely clothed. Storm Dancer whispers that she knew him once. . .long ago. He vows to keep her safe. By morning, he seems to vanish, yet Storm Dancer will remain with Shannon, in every way a flesh-and-blood man who awakens her every womanly longing. For their spirits call to each other. . . Storm Dancer's vow is kept. He is more honorable by far than the white man Shannon must wed, and time will prove that only he can save her from violence and treachery. That he is the only man she will truly love. . . "A Story That Will Thrill." -- Romantic Times on Lakota Dawn

Release date: June 23, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 401

Sample

Great Smoky Mountains June 1756

“I want to die in my bed, not murdered by heathen savages.”

Shannon O’Shea glanced from the older woman to the willows lining the creek a hundred yards away. It wasn’t that far, and the cow was thirsty.

“Scalped or worse…” Hannah Clark threw another branch on the campfire and trailed off ominously, leaving unsaid all her earlier lurid predictions of torture and rape by Cherokee war parties.

“Take that animal to water, Shannon.” Nathan Clark scowled at his wife. “And you hold your tongue, and stop scaring her.” He heaved the wagon tongue off the ground, lifting it high enough for Shannon to lead the milk cow out of the enclosure. “Go on, girl. Doubt you’ll be scalped between here and the creek with Drake to stand guard.”

Shannon nodded, knotting her shawl against the damp. She’d forgotten how chilly these mountains could be in June. Dark clouds hovered over the mountaintops, and she could smell the coming rain. Funny how the familiar sounds and scents all came rushing back to her, after so many years away.

“You waitin’ for the second coming?” Nathan’s meaty arms bulged under the weight of the wagon tongue.

Shannon shivered, despite the thick wool of her new shawl. She had to admit the tale the white fur trappers had related this morning about being attacked by Cherokee made her nervous. After a month on the trail west, they were still three days’ journey from her father’s home. She wouldn’t feel safe until she felt his strong arms around her again.

“Storm’s moving in fast,” Nathan chided. “Cow don’t drink tonight, she don’t give milk tomorrow.”

Shannon tugged on the halter rope. The spotted cow rolled her eyes and planted her front feet in the mud. “Come on,” Shannon coaxed. Of all the cows she’d ever tended, Betty had the worst disposition. She was stubborn, she kicked, and she’d hook you with her broken horn if you weren’t careful.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing down the long valley. Tree branches whipped and groaned overhead; leaves swirled and danced around the wagons. Sand and grit blew against Shannon’s face and arms.

Hannah shook a thick finger at Nathan. “You’ll rue the day you didn’t listen to me.”

“I rue the day I ever did. I said I was sending Drake to watch over her. Drake! Where’d you get to?”

Hannah’s shrill voice rose to a high-pitched whine. “A bucket of milk ain’t worth a girl’s life. How you gonna explain to Flynn O’Shea you sent his girl out to be massacred for—”

“Cherokee ain’t stupid!” Nathan roared. “Six wagons, ten men, and fifteen good rifles. Sneaky devils want no part of us. Leave the girl to tend that cantankerous beast and me worry about Indians.” He slapped a hand on Betty’s bony hip, and the cow charged forward, tossing her horns and slinging mud through the air with all four hooves. “Drake!” Nathan bellowed again.

Shannon dodged the cow’s rush and dashed ahead, holding tightly to the halter rope. Intent on hanging on to Betty without being trampled, she didn’t notice Nathan’s oldest son until she slammed into his broad chest.

Drake chuckled and wrapped his big arms around her, trapping her in his embrace. Somewhere in the process, he grabbed the cow’s rope and yanked Betty to a skidding halt.

“Drake?” Shannon inhaled the mingled scents of damp wool, tobacco, and saddle oil. It had to be Drake. Drake had worn a blue shirt today…or was that his twin brother? Drake and Damon were identical, making it nearly impossible to tell them apart, even to their father. They even sounded alike. “You are Drake, aren’t you?”

Pale blue eyes narrowed with mischief. “Maybe. Had I knowed you wanted me this bad, I’d of come when Pa first yelled. What’s he want now?”

Shannon ducked under Drake’s rifle and wiggled out of his embrace. She liked him well enough, despite his outlandish notion that she’d marry him before Christmas. “He wants you to walk to the river with us. Watch out for hostiles.”

“You take care!” Drake’s mother shouted from within the circle of wagons. “I’ll not have my oldest scalped for cow nor woman.”

“Mind your own business, Ma,” Drake yelled back.

“Can we just go?” Shannon asked. “Betty needs her water before the rain starts.” She didn’t care for the way he spoke to his mother. She thought it was disrespectful. Hannah Clark was a rude woman, but Drake was her son. He should have better manners.

Drake tilted his head up and raindrops splattered across his broad face. “Rain’s already started, I’d say. And most cows don’t melt in a little rain, or is this one special?”

“Funny.”

He flashed her a devilish grin. “Damon and me were just—”

“Drake!” His mirror image appeared around the corner of the nearest Conestoga, also wearing an identical blue homespun shirt. “Jacob wants us to help pull that wagon wheel so he can grease the axle.”

Drake glanced down at her. “You certain you need my protection?”

“Go ahead,” she urged. “I’ll be fine. It’s not a hundred yards to the creek. They can see me from the wagons.”

“Reckon that’s so.”

Shannon looked back at the cow and shook the lead rope. She could swear the animal was giving her the evil eye. “Go.” Betty mooed, lowered her head, and began to trot toward the water.

The creek bank sloped down to gravelly shallows. No more than fifteen feet across, the rocky stream was icy cold and so clear, Shannon could see silvery fish zipping along the bottom. When the cow began to drink, Shannon bent and splashed handfuls of water on her face.

Without warning, lightning crashed a short distance away. To Shannon’s left, a tall pine tree quivered and burst into flames. The stench of sulfur choked her as she stumbled back, slipped on a mossy stone, and fell on her backside in six inches of water. Betty bawled and leaped straight in the air, ripping the lead rope out of Shannon’s hand. She grabbed for the rope, but couldn’t hold the panicked animal. The cow splashed through the creek, struggled up the far bank, and plunged into the thick undergrowth.

“Whoa! Whoa! Betty, come back!” Shannon didn’t hesitate. All she could think of was how valuable a milk cow was and how much trouble she’d once gotten in when two hens at the tavern had gone missing. Surely, if she lost Betty, her father would have to pay her worth in hard coin. Swallowing her own fears and oblivious to the rising wind and rain, she waded through the icy water and raced into the forest after the panicked animal.

Blackberries and wild grape vines tangled around Shannon’s legs and tore at her cap. Needles of rain stung her face and blurred her vision. Thunder rolled and boomed overhead. “Betty!” she called. “Betty!”

The thicket opened into a shadowy glade sheltered by towering oaks, and directly ahead, the print of a cow’s hoof stood out clearly on the thick moss. Shannon glanced back over her shoulder, but a wall of green leaves obscured the creek. She wondered if she should go back for help.

A roll of thunder nearly drowned out the cow’s bawl of distress. Shannon circled a tree trunk wider than a covered wagon and caught sight of Betty no more than fifty feet ahead. The rope dangled enticingly from the animal’s halter. “Easy,” Shannon soothed. “Easy, girl. Good cow.” Branches overhead swayed in the wind, and huge drops of rain filtered through the green interlaced canopy overhead.

Betty stood motionless until Shannon was almost within reach of the trailing line, then leaped forward over a rotting log, and scampered away. For five minutes, perhaps ten, they played a game of cat and mouse until, just as Shannon was about to admit defeat, Betty’s rope caught between two rocks. “Got you!” Shannon cried.

Caught, the cow uttered a plaintive moo, raised her tail, and voided her bladder. Shannon dodged the yellow stream and considered strangling Betty with her own lead line. Muttering dire threats, she wrapped the rope around one wrist. If she followed her own footprints on the forest floor, there was no chance of losing her way back to the creek.

Shannon knew that her plan would have worked if it hadn’t gotten so dark that she couldn’t see the ground under her feet…or if every oak tree hadn’t loomed as black and shapeless as the one beside it. Or if the downpour didn’t make it impossible to distinguish an oak from a chestnut.

When the moss under her feet became gravel and ragged tufts of grass and the trees became smaller, Shannon realized she was lost. Teeth chattering, she leaned against the cow and fought back tears. No one from the wagons could find her in this storm. She’d be out here in the cold and wet all night, and the longer she wandered, the farther she might be from camp. If the lightning didn’t strike her dead, she’d freeze before dawn.

Abruptly, Betty yanked back on the rope and started walking up an incline. Having no better idea, Shannon didn’t try to stop her. Animals had a good sense of smell, she reasoned. Maybe Betty could find the way back. The stream and a warm fire might be just beyond those—

Another bolt of lightning lit up the woods, half blinding Shannon and raising the hair at the nape of her neck. Betty fell to her knees then scrambled up and charged toward a black void in the hillside, dragging Shannon after her. One shoe came off as Shannon threw up her arms to protect her head. The rope cut into her flesh painfully and then came loose as lightning struck a second time even closer. Betty plunged into what appeared to be the mouth of a cave. Shannon regained her footing, stumbled into the shelter of the overhanging rock, and sank to the dry floor.

She could hear the cow’s hooves clacking on stone, but had lost sight of the animal when she careened around a pillar of rock and vanished into the depths of the cavern. Grateful to be out of the storm, hands and knees raw from being dragged, Shannon curled into a ball and caught her breath. The muted sound of rain and the absence of the biting wind soothed her and did much to restore her nerve. All she had to do was sit here until daylight, and someone would find her.

Images of bears and mountain lions nudged the corners of her mind and she pushed them back. If any wild beast had taken shelter in the cave, the cow would have smelled it. Nothing could hurt her here. She kicked off her single remaining shoe, drew off her soaking shawl, and wrung out the water.

Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she rubbed them vigorously in an attempt to stave off the chills that shook her body and made her teeth chatter. Her skirt was as wet as the wrap. She stripped off the woolen gown and her stockings, leaving only her shift and petticoats. They were wet too, but she could hardly sleep on the cave floor as naked as an egg without even a blanket.

She peered out into the night. She could smell smoke, hear the faint crackle of fire. Was it possible that the woods were on fire? Oddly, the scent seemed to be stronger at the back of the cave. She ventured to the far corner and looked around the rock pillar that hid the passage to the deeper section of the cavern. She gave a small gasp of astonishment and took several steps down the natural incline to the inner chamber.

Fire! But how…a shadowy figure raised a head beyond the flames—not a cow, but a horse. Curiosity became fear as Shannon realized that the fire couldn’t have come from the lightning. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the cry that rose from her throat and turned to run. And for the second time that day, she smacked into the hard muscle and sinew of a man’s chest. And for the second time, she found herself trapped in powerful bare arms.

Fierce black eyes glared into her own. Eyes set into a copper-hued face, high cheekbones, and rugged features that might have been hewn from granite.

Cherokee! Terror lent her strength. She kicked and struggled to get free, but he crushed her against his naked flesh.

“Quiet, woman.”

Tears blurred her vision. “Let me go!” she repeated as he lifted her off the floor and carried her effortlessly back toward the fire. Her voice rang high and frightened in her ears. This couldn’t be happening. “No, please…” Was she going to die here and now?

Hannah Clark’s warnings of rape and torture curled down Shannon’s spine and made her knees go weak as milk. She balled her hands into fists and struck at her captor’s face. If she died, she would die fighting.

“Peace, Mary Shan-non. I am not your enemy.”

As suddenly as he’d seized her, the Indian let her go. She half circled the fire and backed up until she felt the cold stone wall block her escape. Mouth dry, eyes wide, she stared at him.

Cherokee. Her heart sank.

Even on the far side of the fire, he towered over her—a Cherokee warrior at the height of his power, painted for war with twin streaks of black paint adorning each cheek. A single eagle feather dangled from hair as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing and fell unbound below massive shoulders. Beaten silver rings pierced each earlobe, and a single band of silver encircled one bulging bicep. A ribbon of tribal tattoos ran from collarbone to hip to knee on his right side, a decoration revealed in all its glory by the expanse of honey-dark skin, lean belly, and muscular thigh.

Fear shimmered through her—utter terror and another emotion that she didn’t dare name. Buzzing rang in her ears and spots danced before her eyes. Where was her shame? Her throat tightened and she felt blood rush to her face. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him.

Nothing covered the Cherokee’s raw nakedness but a twisted cord of rawhide around his lean waist, a loincloth that did little to conceal his obvious sex, and a pair of high, beaded deerskin moccasins. Tall and broad shouldered, he seemed more dream than flesh-and-blood man…. But no ghost who invaded her dreams had worn both a sheathed hunting knife and a steel Cherokee tomahawk strapped to his waist.

“I won’t hurt you, Mary Shan-non.”

His deep voice echoed off the limestone ceiling and walls. “Maryshannon…Maryshannon…Maryshannon.”

English. He was speaking English, accented, with an almost musical cadence, but she could understand every word. She sucked air into her chest and the buzzing noise receded. How did he know her name? “Who are you?” she stammered.

“Men call me Storm Dancer, but you knew me once when I wore a different name.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t know you. You’re a stranger.”

His thin lips turned up in a faint smile. “Are you sure?”

“Please. Let me go back to my friends. My father is a friend to the Cherokee. He will pay—”

“It is as you say. Flynn O’Shea is a good friend to the Cherokee.” He touched his lips with two fingers in a graceful gesture. “Among my people, we call him Truth Teller.”

“And he will pay well for my safe return.” Shannon straightened her shoulders and tried to force her voice to calm. If she could keep him talking, reason with him, she might live to walk out of here as untouched as she’d entered. She took another breath. “How do you know who I am?”

He made a click with his tongue that might have been amusement. “You don’t listen. But I should have remembered. Once an idea lodged in your head, you did not give it up easily.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Have you forgotten the boy who taught you to catch trout with your bare hands? To ride a pony astride without bridle or saddle?”

Otter? She looked at him again. Once, long ago, when she was small, a boy had come often to her father’s trading post with his uncle, an important man called Winter Fox. He’d been older than she by a few years, not many, young enough that her mother hadn’t forbidden them to play together. Other children had visited the post from time to time, but Otter had been her only real friend. But Otter had been a shy, gentle boy, slender as a reed with a quiet smile and tender hands. This savage warrior couldn’t possibly be…

He folded his arms across his chest. “Now you remember.”

“Otter?”

He retrieved a blanket from the edge of the fire and approached her with slow, measured steps. “You are cold, Mary Shannon. Warm yourself.”

“No,” she said stubbornly, clinging to reason. “You can’t be my Otter.”

When she flinched, he followed and draped the blanket around her shoulders. “Long ago I was,” he said. “But his time is past.”

Emboldened by his kind gesture, she sidled past the horse’s rump. In the far corner, a second horse stood nose to nose with Betty. With a shock she realized she knew these animals. The white trappers who’d stopped the Clark party early this morning had ridden these horses—the men who’d warned them about the raid by hostile Indians. This man, whoever he was, was at least a thief, perhaps even a murderer. Her fear flowed back twofold.

“Please, if you’d just let me go.”

He took a stand between her and the entrance. “Do you want to die?”

Her heart hammered against her chest, blood ringing in her ears. “You said…you promised you wouldn’t hurt me.” Tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks. “You promised.”

“Do you think Flynn O’Shea is the only man who speaks true?” His question rang hard and aggrieved. “You are my guest, Mary Shannon. Out there lies danger. I will keep you safe by my fire until morning.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat as thunder boomed and rolled across the mountain peaks. Alone with a nearly naked stranger, a barbaric tribesman with skin of dusty bronze…Safe? And her clad only in shift and stays, how could she be safe with him?

“Come.” He bent and added another log to the fire. “Warm yourself.” The words were soft, but commanding.

“The horses…” she dared. “You took them from—”

He nodded. “I did.”

“And the men who rode them?”

His sloe-black eyes glittered in the firelight. “This is Cherokee land,” he murmured. “The enemy of the Cherokee can expect no mercy.”

A twig snapped and the flames flared, casting grotesque shadows on the wall and ceiling. A bone-deep chill radiated out from the pit of Shannon’s stomach, and she couldn’t help shivering. He’d as much as admitted he’d stolen the horses and murdered the men who’d ridden them. He was right. If he ever had been her friend Otter, it was long ago—replaced by a cold and heartless killer…a man who could use her as he pleased and discard her without a shred of conscience.

She wasn’t a coward, but she didn’t want to die. Still, if she had to, she’d do it with dignity. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging for her life. And she wouldn’t make it easy for him. She’d fight as long as she drew breath.

“Please,” she said, trying not to show how frightened she was, “I’m cold. Could I have my dress? It’s out there.” She pointed, but he’d already ducked around the wall of rock that concealed the inner chamber from the cave mouth. Before she could take two deep breaths, he was back, her dripping garment and stockings in his hands, beads of rain streaking his hard features and bare chest.

“You cannot wear these,” he said.

“Yes, I can.”

She reached for them, but he shook his head and draped the wet garments over a saddle on the far side of the fire. “You were never such a fool, Mary Shan-non. If you put them on before they dry, you will be even colder.”

“Don’t call me that,” she protested without thinking. Her mother had only used her full baptismal name when she’d been in trouble for some childish mischief. Moreover, it was what the orphanage matron, Mistress Murrain, had called her when she’d beaten her for breaking the rules. “Mar-ry Shan-non—Mar-ry Shan-non!” And each taunting syllable had brought another slash of the leather strap and more mocking ridicule from the other girls. “I go by Shannon now,” she finished, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Shan-non.”

His soft Cherokee struck an unfamiliar chord, piercing her defenses, and unfurling a bright ribbon of excitement deep inside her. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them back. “If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone I saw you,” she bargained.

“And I am to let the daughter of Truth Teller walk out into the storm to be struck down by anagalisgi, the lightning, or eaten by yona, the black bear?” He motioned her to sit down on the floor of the cave, fumbled in a leather bag, and tossed her a patty of what looked like corn bread. “Eat. You are too thin.”

Why was he offering her food? Did he think she’d fall into his arms for a morsel of bread?

“Eat, woman. Are you simple?”

Reluctantly, she nibbled at the cake. It was sweet and laced with dried berries. And after the first bite, her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d had nothing since mush and weak tea at dawn. Ravenous, she consumed the last crumbs.

“Good.” He indicated the cow contentedly chewing her cud. “There is milk to wash it down. No?”

Shannon dropped the blanket on the cave floor and did as she was told. She squirted warm milk from the cow’s teats into her mouth and drank until her belly was full. Then she glanced at him.

He shook his head. “Milk is not for the Tsalagi.” He didn’t have to translate. She remembered that that was the word that the Cherokee used to describe themselves. Tsalagi…the people. He dropped into a sitting position and held out his palms to the fire. “Warm yourself.”

She returned to the fire, more conscious than ever of her state of undress, and wrapped the blanket around her again. By the cow’s foot had been a jagged stone half the size of her hand. She held it now, concealed from him. It was a poor weapon against a tomahawk or the long rifle leaning against the far wall, but it was something. She was no light skirts, and she’d fight him with every ounce of her strength if he tried to have his way with her.

“Where is your other moccasin?” He indicated her bare foot. “I saw only one at the cave entrance.”

“My shoe? I lost it…in the storm.” Desperate not to sound foolish, she added, “The cow tried to get away. I couldn’t stop to find it.”

“I see.” He pulled a wicked-looking knife from the sheath at his waist and began to sharpen it with a stone. Firelight flashed on the surface of the steel blade.

“I’m not afraid of you.” When he looked doubtful, she repeated the lie. “You don’t scare me.”

“You are a poor liar, Mary Shannon.”

“I’m not…” She trailed off, knowing that he was right. She was terrified. Even the air in the cavern seemed charged, as though lightning would strike them at any second. The tension made it difficult to breathe…to sit still. “Your uncle…”

She stopped. This wasn’t Otter; he couldn’t be. He was the liar. “Otter’s uncle is a great man among the Cherokee. He will be angry if you hurt the only child of his good friend.”

He fixed those black eyes on hers. “Have I hurt you, woman? I have given you shelter from the storm, fed you, and covered you with my only blanket.”

“You haven’t hurt me,” she admitted. At least, not yet. “But you’re holding me against my will. And…” Her gaze strayed to the knife in his hand. “You murdered those men in cold blood.”

He shrugged. “So you say.”

“You killed them, didn’t you?”

“Go to sleep. I will keep watch.”

Not a chance, she thought. If she closed her eyes, who knew what he’d do? She curled her bare feet under her and pretended to drift off. The smells of the crackling fire, the warm familiar scent of the animals, the rain falling steadily at the cave mouth all conspired to lull her into a false sense of security. She was determined to watch for his attack, but as the minutes became hours and he continued to sit there, her resolve faltered and slumber as deep as death claimed her.

“Shan-non.”

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up abruptly, startling the cow who snorted and shook her horns at the nearest horse. Shannon uttered a small gasp and tried to remember where she was.

“It is morning,” he said. “The sun has risen and the rain has stopped.” He held out a woven basket smaller than her fist. “Have you thirst?”

Her hand trembled as she reached for the object. He was so close she could smell his damp hair and skin, an unfamiliar woodsy blend of earth and forest…foreign but not unpleasant. As she took the basket, his lean fingers brushed hers and her heart raced at his touch. She drew in a deep breath. “What is—”

“Water from the spring. Drink.”

She obeyed and found the liquid cold and sweet, so different from the well water at Klank’s tavern that it seemed impossible both could be the same substance. She drained the cup to the last drop. “Where did you get this little basket?” she asked. It seemed fashioned of leaves and twigs, but it was watertight and light as duck down.

His bronze features remained expressionless, but his eyes narrowed. “It is nothing. A skill my aunt taught me when I was…” He hesitated, searching for the word. “A cub.”

“A small child,” she corrected. Had she lost her mind that she would concern herself with precise words? The man was nearly naked. His muscular legs were long and powerful. One bare thigh bore three great ivory scars that started at his hip and ran down the outside of his leg halfway to his knee. Only one animal could leave such a mark. She’d not been so long in the East that she didn’t recognize the damage a bear’s claw could do.

“Yes,” he said, tapping the single ornament that hung from a string of rawhide at his throat. “I was foolish enough to meet yona as he woke hungry from his winter’s sleep.”

Shannon swallowed hard. The necklace bore a bear’s claw, so large that simply looking at it made shivers run down her spine. “A big bear,” she murmured.

He shrugged. “An old warrior bear, strong and wise.” He touched the claw lightly. “Veteran of many battles.”

“But you escaped.”

He shook his head. “No. Yona killed me.”

Her eyes widened in astonishment before she saw one corner of his mouth twitch in amusement and realized that he was teasing her. “You said you were a cub,” she ventured. “Do you have some power over bears?”

“I was born to the Wolf Clan of the Tsalagi. A cub is a young one, no?”

“Yes, but—”

“A cub and a child the same.”

“Your English is very good, but a cub is an animal and a child is a human.”

“So you believe.”

Unwilling to argue the point with him, Shannon looked down at the vessel cradled in her hand. The weaving was simple yet beautiful. She wished she could make something so useful out of twigs and leaves. Strange to think a bloodthirsty Cherokee warrior might create such a thing…for her.

Otter had brought her small gifts whenever he’d visited the trading post. Once he’d given her a doll fashioned of wood and leather with real hair from a horse’s mane. She remembered how she’d loved the doll, even though it had no features. Where the eyes and mouth and nose should have been was only smooth buckskin. Otter had explained that only the Creator could make a human. The Cherokee sewed no faces on their children’s dolls. Odd, but charming.

But this wasn’t Otter, she reminded herself. Now that she wasn’t quite so frightened, she could see that this man wasn’t ugly. This morning, the war paint had vanished, leaving only those high cheekbones, the proud nose, and that honey red-brown skin. The fire had died to embers and she could no longer see his dark, fierce eyes, but she felt the intense power of his gaze.

“Can I go now?” she asked him.

He stepped back and allowed her to pass. She snatched up her dress and yanked it over her head. It was wrinkled but almost dry, and she felt confidence returning as soon as she was decently covered.

“I have to take the cow.”

He shrugged. “Did I not tell you I don’t drink milk?”

“She belongs to the Clark family. I’m responsible for the cow,” she babbled. Hope surged in her chest. Was he really going to allow her to walk out of here unharmed? She took hold of Betty’s dangling rope and pulled the troublesome animal after her. This seemed too easy. After all her fears, was he really just going to allow her to walk away?

When she reached the mouth of the cave, the sun was so bright that she had to shield her eyes from the glare. The storm that had made the woods so forbidding had transformed the forest into an Eden tinted with every shade of green. Birdsong echoed from branch to treetop, and a rainbow of wildflowers adorned the thick carpet of grass and moss.

Her one shoe lay where she’d discarded it, but the other was hopelessly lost. She’d have to find her way back to the camp in her stockinged feet. How she would replace the shoes, she had no clue. Worn though they were, the footwear had been her only pair.

“Come on, Betty,” she urged, pulling at the cow’s lead. She wanted to get away as quickly as possible—before he could change his mind. At least she wouldn’t have to return without the Clarks’ cow. She knew she’d be blamed for getting lost and—

A rifle shot rang out nearby. A flock of crows flew up in alarm, and a blue jay rasped an urgent warning. Shannon shouted, “Here! I’m here!” Then started as the Cherokee appeared beside her.

“Go.” He waved toward the forest.

She started down the slope, tugging Betty after her. “Over here!”

Suddenly Drake and his twin brother stepped from the trees. Damon shouted, but his words were drowned by the sound of horses’ hooves on the stone ledge behind her. Drake aimed his rifle toward the cave.

“No!” Shannon shouted. “Wait, he’s not—”

The gun roared.

The Cherokee shoved her to the ground. “Stay down!” He turned and vaulted onto the back of the black horse, leaning over so far that nothing showed but one leg and moccasined foot and a single fist tightly gripping the animal’s mane. With a cry he drove his mount down the stone-strewn incline directly toward Drake and Damon. The second horse followed half a length behind, running full out, tail and mane flying.

Drake struggled to reload. Damon raised his rifle to fire, but the black horse was almost on him, and he had to leap aside to avoid being trampled. Damon’s foot tangled in the undergrowth and he sprawled full length on the ground. Shannon screamed as the black horse’s hooves came perilously close to his head.

At the last instant, the animal leaped over Damon’s fallen body and plunged into the woods. The other horse veered left between the brothers and galloped after the mounted Cherokee.

Cursing, Drake got off a second shot, but the slug missed the target by yards and struck the trunk of a massive oak, sending bark spraying into the air. Shannon got to her feet and ran to Damon’s side. “Are you hurt?”

Damon sat up, blinked, and rubbed his left knee. “I’m all right,” he managed. His rifle lay a few feet away, the stock splintered where a flying hoof had struck it.

“Damn it to hell,” Drake swore. “I had him in my sights. I could have—”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Shannon protested. “You shouldn’t have shot at him.”

Drake scowled as he took in her bare legs and wrinkled dress. “You look like…” His face reddened. “Did he—”

“No. He didn’t touch me. I got caught in the storm. We spent last night in the cave together, but—”

“You spent the night with him and lived to tell about it?” Drake set his jaw in that stubborn way he had. . .