Cherokee Storm. Janelle TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
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