Free Through the Fire (The Native American Warrior Series) by Beth Trissel Page A

“Much more can Shoka make your life difficult. Are all English ladies so determined as you?”
    “ Hardly,” she scoffed. “Many of the gentlemen are little more than sniveling milksops. I am not easily defeated.”
    “ You think Shoka is?”
    She frowned at the reddish coals in the gray ashes of the campfire. “He betrayed me to Black Knife.”
    “ No. He did what he must to preserve your life.”
    “ That is not my idea of protection. I’m sore all over.”
    “ You fought him. If Shoka did not keep you safe, you would be much sorer today. Like the Long Knife.”
    “ Long Knives,” she amended. “There are two.”
    “ One man died in the night.”
    She flung down her cup and splashed hissing tea against the embers. “Confound it. I thought I saved them.”
    “ The lieutenant lives.”
    “ Poor fellow.” She sought Lieutenant McClure’s figure through the trees, but didn’t spot him. “How badly injured is he?”
    “ Much. Yet, he will live.”
    Pushing the blanket from her shoulders, she set her hands on her hips. “He had better. Or doesn’t Black Knife keep his word?”
    “ Do not fear. Black Knife admires his courage.”
    “ Black Knife is a weasel-faced bastard,” she ground out.
    Warning darkened Meshewa ’s youthful countenance. “Do not speak this.”
    “ It’s the truth.”
    “ Say it more, I will bind your mouth.”
    “ I’d like to see you try...”
    Stern lines in every contour of his young face, he gripped her shoulders, “Becca—”
    Raising her arms with a sudden snap, she thrust his away.
    Before she could blink, Meshewa grabbed her wrists and spun her around so that her back was turned to him. She kicked a leg behind his, shoving herself backward to knock him off balance. He stumbled and his grip loosened slightly. Tearing an arm free, she drove her elbow into his stomach.
    He grunted. Dodging the second elbow she aimed at his middle, he snaked his arms around her from behind.
    She thrashed in his tight coil, kicking back one leg then the other. He sidestepped her pummeling legs and locked her ankles between his. Clapping one hand over her mouth, he imprisoned her with his other arm.
    “ You are fortunate I like you much,” he said.
    She had greatly underestimated the strength and speed of his lean body. Despite the pain she caused herself, she bucked in his hold.
    “Be still!”
    “ So, Meshewa, you must tame a devil cat.”
    Rebecca swiveled her head at Shoka ’s low voice. With his uncanny stealth, he pushed through the branches, a gutted deer slung over his bare shoulders. She could only glare mutely at him.
    “ Becca’s mouth causes her much trouble,” Meshewa panted.
    “ Yes.” Shoka shifted his kill down to the grass. Blood from the fresh game reddened his bronzed skin.
    She watched warily as he propped his musket against the silvery-white sycamore then slid off his powder horn, shot pouch, and beaded elkskin hunting bag to hang them from a limb. He deposited his —her—pistol at the base of the tree and pivoted toward them.
    “ Give me this wild one.”
    “ Do nothing foolish,” Meshewa whispered, and transferred her to his cousin.
    Shoka closed muscular arms around her and swept her off the ground. Her petticoats spilled over his raw masculinity. She didn ’t trust the unsettling edge that underlay his calm demeanor. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded the instant her mouth was free.
    He swept her off the ground. “To the stream. Water will teach you respect.”
    Coming to volatile life, she twisted like captive prey in his arms. “No! You’ll drown me in this heavy gown!”
    “ Only where the water is deep. I won’t throw you there.”
    “ Don’t throw me anywhere. I detest cold water.”
    He smiled, showing strong white teeth. “I know.”
    Easily suppressing her struggles, he sprinted with her through dewy ferns and grasses. The green bank rushed by under his moccasins. He did not stop but stepped over the mossy rocks at the edge