Free My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2) by Lori Copeland Page A

upstairs was pretty put out with her right now. Would He even want to keep caring for her when her choices brought trouble everywhere she turned? The nuns who’d raised her would say yes. They’d claim no one was irredeemable. But after the events of recent weeks, Anne-Marie wondered if she’d tested His patience too far.
    The Indian shouted in a tense, guttural tone to the second Indian.
    Surprise flickered across the warrior’s features. Cutting his horse around the wagon, he joined his companion. The two men gestured at Creed as they conversed in animated tones.
    “What are they saying?” Anne-Marie longed to turn around and look, but she was too scared to move a muscle.
    “I’m not sure we want to know.”
    One of the warriors trotted back to the front of the wagon and leaned over to grab the horse’s bridle.
    “Have mercy,” Quincy groaned when the Indian started leading the team down the road.

    A young man led the buckboard into camp and a crowd gathered. Anne-Marie had never seen so many Indian men, women, and children—and all were peering at her curiously.
    The lead warrior shouted orders, and two young braves scattered to various tents. The women crowded closer, some touching Anne-Marie’s skirt, eyes bright with curiosity.
    When the wagon rolled to a stop a tall, lean man wearing breech-cloth stepped from his tent to view the spectacle. Parting the crowd, he made his way to the back of the buckboard. Surprise and gladness registered on his handsome features when he apparently recognized the injured man, followed closely by worry when he focused on the blood-soaked bandage around Creed’s right thigh.
    “Who is that?” Anne-Marie asked.
    Quincy bent closer. “Can’t say for certain, but I’d guess it’s the tribal chief.”
    Issuing a harsh command, the man motioned for help. The flap of a tepee parted to reveal a startlingly beautiful girl with doe-like eyes. The girl hurried to the wagon to peer down at the man’s unconscious form. Worry flooded her features. Leaning over, she gently touched his face and whispered, “Storm Rider.”
    His eyes opened, and he smiled at her.
    Anne-Marie noted the exchange, surprised to feel a trace of envy. When Creed gazed at the young woman Anne-Marie could see something akin to love reflected in his eyes before they slowly closed again.
    “Berry Woman, go with Storm Rider to the medicine man,” the chief said. Two braves stepped forward to lift Anne-Marie from the wagon. Without ceremony, she was taken to a colorful tepee in the center of the camp. She stood by helplessly when Quincy was led to a tent on the opposite side of the circle.
    The two warriors loaded Creed onto a travois as Berry Woman hovered near his side. Slowly they made their way to the medicine man’s tent.
    It was over an hour before anyone returned to Anne-Marie’s tepee. During that time she had sat huddled near the fire, feeling no particular sense of fear. Obviously Creed was acquainted with the Apache band, and if they were going to harm her, they would have already done so.
    Her thoughts returned to Creed and the young Indian maiden. She’d hated the way her stomach had cramped up when he looked at the girl. Obviously he knew her well enough.
    The flap on the tepee parted and Berry Woman entered, carrying a wooden bowl of stew. Although Anne-Marie was famished, she was more concerned about Creed.
    “How is he?” she inquired.
    The maiden’s eyes met hers coolly. “You need not concern yourself with Storm Rider. I will see that he is cared for.”
    “You speak English?”
    “When necessary.” The edge in her tone told Anne-Marie that they were not destined to become friends.
    Berry Woman turned to leave, and then apparently changed her mind. “How was Storm Rider injured?”
    “I shot him. Accidentally.”
    The girl’s eyes grew more opaque. “You shot the man who will be my husband?”
    “Husband?” Was there no end to the surprises concerning Creed Walker?
    “We