Excerpt from Chapter Three
Autumn, 1784, the Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia, the Scots-Irish Gathering in the McNeal Homestead
Guilt pricked Karin’s conscience. Stealth was at odds with her
nature, but an inner voice summoned her, an irresistible melody. She
instinctively knew where the music came from and that she must heed the
age-old rhythm.
She crept into the main room. The dancers had succumbed to
grogginess. Shadowy figures slumbered before the reddish-orange logs in
the hearth, rolled up in blankets and deerskins on the floor boards.
Other dark forms were bedded down in the loft overhead. Some hardy
souls had ventured out into the wind-tossed night after the startling
end to the celebration. They’d headed home, but many folks remained
within the stout walls of the homestead.
Popping wood settled in the hearth with a shower of orange sparks. Karin paused in mid-step.
No one stirred, except to snore and grunt in their sleep. Generous
draughts of strong drink contributed to their unresponsive stupor. Saint
Peter himself would have been hard-pressed to wake them. Like a vagrant
spirit, she easily stole through the sprawled assembly and into the
chamber where they’d taken Jack McCray.
A single candle burned on the circular bedside stand. The fringed
pouch which laid on its walnut surface had been stained with use and the
horn worn translucent so that it revealed the black powder within. The
potentially lethal tomahawk gleamed in the flickering light.
That same
glow illuminated its owner stretched out in Joseph’s place, his long
torso and legs spread the length of the mattress.
She
needn’t worry that Jack grew chilled. Two brown striped wool blankets
snugly wrapped him. She stopped beside his slumbering form, trembling
with the cold and shaken by her daring in being where none would want
her, except possibly the recipient of her scrutiny. Thankfully, he was
unaware of her presence.
Had Jack even known what words escaped his lips when he’d whispered
that strange message to her? Likely it was simply the wanderings of a
confused mind borne of injury, but mystery veiled everything about the
handsome stranger. Even lying there senseless, he drew her as if on the
keenest wind.
She trailed her eyes over his face, pale beneath his bronzed skin,
though not as drained of color as she’d feared. The covers rested
partway down his muscular shoulders and chest. White linen swathed his
upper right arm where she’d applied the bandage. As far as she knew
the only clothing he wore was an elkskin breechclout and a woven belt at
his waist. He wouldn’t part with his knife. Grandpa had stripped off
all else.
The restraints of modesty posed no hindrance to Neeley who’d sponged
more of their guest than was seemly for Karin to do. An herbal scent
clung to Jack’s clean skin and his freshly combed chestnut hair spread
over the pillow. Unaccustomed to a man in this state of undress, Karin
returned her close study to his face, disturbingly attractive with a
familiar quality in his youthful but ruggedly masculine features.
His
even brow and nose bore a strong resemblance to Joseph’s, not so large
as to be out of proportion, but distinctive and definitely McCray.
Beneath the dark whiskers roughening his firm chin she saw the same
small cleft, a family trait. Jack lacked his brother’s reddish tones,
though, and was a warm brown from his sun-kissed skin to his hair. More
like Uncle Thomas.
Here lay no boy newly sprung to manhood, but a well-honed
frontiersman and Lord only knew what else. Joseph paled in comparison
with his striking brother, partly because Jack was new and different.
Wonderfully so. But she couldn’t stand and stare at him all night.
She laid her hand on his forehead, relieved to find no sign of fever.
Neeley was familiar with all the healing herbs and had taught Karin
well. Jack’s robust health would also aid his recovery. Confident he was
on the mend, Karin let her curious inspection drift to the white stone
suspended from the leather cord around his neck. Pink lights in the
quartz shimmered with rosy iridescence. Intrigued, she reached out her
hand to the polished surface—freezing as he groaned.
His eyes opened. In that instant, any resemblance between the
brothers vanished. Jack’s seeing, yet not seeing, gaze fixed on her with
a feral gleam.
Fear rushed through her. Snatching her hand away, she spun around.
Not fast enough.
She gasped as he snagged her wrist and jerked her down onto the bed.
Snaking his sound arm around her chest, he pinned both arms at her
sides. His injured limb was equally able—the pain seemingly forgotten in
his craze.
“What do you want?” he demanded hoarsely.~
***The powder horn and pouch pictured above once belonged to Daniel Boone but has been stolen. For more on that visit: http://www.boonesociety.org/articles/danielboonpowderhorn.htm
The Bearwalker’s Daughter is available in Amazon Kindle for .99!
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