Free Tender Taming by Heather Graham

she was going to turn, duck tail and run helter-skelter for the airboat, her last link with the known world …
    “This, my dear, brave Miss Latham, is it.”
    Whitney crashed into his back as he halted his rapid stride abruptly. Peering around his shoulder, she saw that they had come to another clearing, one occupied by only three well-spaced chickees. One was floorless, and a large pot issuing steam sat in the middle over a crackling fire. One was far to the left with planking three feet off the ground; the last was to the right and identical, shaded by massive pines. As Whitney blinked, an old Indian woman, wrinkled like a prune from countless years of exposure to the sun and elements but as tall and straight as an iron rod, came to them on a soft and silent tread. Her eyes were as black as coal, and despite her great age it was easy to see that Eagle and Katie had inherited their lustrous hair from her. She was dressed regally in the gaudy calico of her people, and row upon row of beads adorned the entire length of her neck. Her pleasure at the sight of her grandchildren was obvious and yet subdued; she accepted them like a queen receiving homage. Once again Whitney hovered in the background, lost while they conversed in the Miccosukee language. The old woman’s eyes were upon her with unabashed speculation, and Whitney’s ears pricked like a dog’s when she began to hear her own name and that of Jonathan Stewart mentioned.
    She was surprised and dismayed when Morning Dew frowned, angered over whatever was being said. It was she who clutched Whitney and pulled her into the group, her gnarled hands amazingly strong and her words vehement although still soft and controlled. Eagle said something impatiently, then as if remembering whom he addressed, he quieted his own tone and went into a lengthy explanation. Whitney caught Randy Harris’s eye and imploringly demanded, “What is going on?”
    Suddenly they all went silent.
    “Eagle will tell you,” Katie said hastily, kissing her grandmother’s cheek and grabbing Randy’s hand. “We’ve got to go. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
    Eagle was staring at her with his bright blue eyes full of mockery and challenge. “Well?”
    “I—I—yes, but what—”
    “See you next week, then,” Katie interrupted, impulsively kissing her cheek, too. “Don’t worry—Gram isn’t mad at you. ’Bye!”
    “Good luck!” Randy called.
    They started back through the path in a sprint, and Whitney was left to helplessly watch them go. Eagle came behind her and his steel-sinewed arms encircled her waist
    “Would you run?” he whispered in a husky taunt. “If so, run now. In another minute you will irrefutably be my woman for the coming week. You have entered the devil’s den, and the devil is about to demand his due.”
    Gut panic gripped Whitney like a wall of ice. It was more than a teasing threat that Eagle had issued. There was an underlying tension in his voice that hinted of a deep fury, as if he was extracting vengeance.
    For what, she wondered.
    Then, as she snapped around in his arms to make a fear-inspired, acidic retort, she knew.
    She was going to pay for her impulsive words when they met—for calling him an Indian with shocked amazement, for haughtily demanding if he could speak English.
    Worst of all, she was going to pay because he had read what she felt in her heart—that she was superior to him. And now there was nothing left to do except bluff her way through it. If his arms were steel, her will would be concrete. She would prove her mettle and take great pleasure in forcing White Eagle to realize he was not dealing with a hothouse Southern belle!
    “Devil’s den?” She smiled sweetly with mock innocence. “This is a paradise. I’m going to love it!”
    “Hmmm … I hope so,” Eagle replied, tapping her chin lightly with a playful gesture. The threat was still in his eyes as he stared down at her, yet it was tempered now with a mixture of other