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Sam wanted nothing more than to gouge the man’s putrid eyes from his sockets at the way he was ogling Ivy. Instead, he had to force himself to sound immune, draw the man’s attention from her and her hands.
“Hope you got no loved ones back there.”
This made the man frown and turn his attention at last away from Ivy. “What the hell is that supposed to me? You threatening me?”
“Nope. The Indians attacked the village, burned the church to the ground.”
The man swore under his breath. “You better be lying about that.”
“‘Fraid not. Them were some pretty irate Indians you were living next to in the nearby reserve.”
“Bloody heathens!” The man growled, his hatred causing foam to form at the corners of his mouth. “Should have massacred ‘em years ago. Nothing but animals they are.”
While the man was distracted, Sam inched ever so closer toward his gun. A quick glance at Ivy showed she was near to untying the last knot.
At that moment, the man glanced at Ivy, noticed her ropes untied, cursed, then turned the barrel of his gun on her. “What the devil!”
“Get out of here, Ivy!” Sam shouted and leaped for his gun.
But before he even reached it a shot rang out, followed by a scream. He spun around wholeheartedly expecting to see Ivy fall to the ground in a heap of blood. Instead, she remained seated on the horse, gazing at him with huge frightened eyes. Not a drop of blood on her.
Sam’s head jerked around and saw the man instead lying face down in the mud splattered earth. A circle of blood forming on his back. A movement outside the woods drew his attention. The shaman who had visited them the night before rode slowly into their camp, his rifle still smoking. And still pointed at Sam.
He held his breath as he watched him come closer, riding his mount toward Ivy. Her face turned pale as the Indian drew alongside her. If he took her, Sam knew there wouldn’t be enough time for him to reach his gun.
But to his surprise, the Indian spoke to her in English. “Is he your man?”
She hesitated, and then nodded vaguely.
The Indian lowered his rifle and told her, “Then go.”
Ivy did not hesit
ate. She slid off the horse and did her best at walking that a limp ankle permitted. Immediately, Sam reached out and wrapped his arm around her automatically moving her protectively behind him. Then he faced the Indian and waited for his next move.
His dark eyes held Sam’s for a beat longer, then turned his horse toward the dead man’s mount and collected its reins. Glancing down at the body of its rider, he said, “It is a fool man that does not heed the warning of wildfires.”
Sam frowned, recalling the Indian’s reference to wildfires before. At the time, Sam assumed his warning was in regards to Ivy. Could he have misunderstood? Perhaps the warning had actually been an omen.
With slowness, the shaman brought his gaze back to Sam. “One does not burn the forest because of one bad tree.”
The skin over Sam’s brows folded. What was that supposed to mean? The Indian’s glance shifted to Ivy before turning away. Sam noticed a look of curious understanding cross her features.
With a simple nod, the Indian turned and rode out of their camp leading the dead man’s horse behind him. Ivy walked slowly toward the corpse laying in his own pool of blood. Her gaze seemed transfixed on him, though somehow he knew her mind was elsewhere.
“When I was younger, I use to condemn the other servants for not having the courage to come forward and help us.”
He watched her kneel down beside the dead man, wondering where that thought came from. “Understandably.”
“But Moira would tell me to hold me tongue and that no good ever came out of judging others. Do not judge according to appearance, but judge with righteous judgment.”
“John 7:24.”
She glanced up at him in surprise.
“Judge not that ye be not judged.” He grinned and said, “Never took me for a choirboy, did ya?” Then turning serious, added, “I too went through my years of seeking answers.”
A softness crossed her expression. “I think we should bury him.”
