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He heard her walking across the cabin then stirring something on the hearth. He must have dozed off for a moment because she was at his bedside again, cradling his head against her soft breasts, holding a cup of hot liquid to his mouth. He sipped it and, even through the fog of pain and confusion, the foul taste made him gag.
His eyes shot open. Wide awake, he found himself staring into the face of a very real Indian.
She muttered something in a low voice and pressed the cup to his lips.
Gabriel pulled away, shocked. This was no dream. This was no angel. She must be one of those escaped savages he’d been warned about.
Gabriel had heard the government was moving them to a bigger reservation out West. But instead of being grateful for their new home, some of the Indians stole away and hid in the forest, refusing to leave. One of them, Tsali, attacked the soldiers sent to escort his family, killing several of them before he escaped. A party of soldiers had stopped at the farm weeks ago, asking if Gabriel had seen him or his sons. They warned him Tsali was a murderer, a dangerous criminal, and told him to keep his firearm handy.
Now one of the savages had broken into his house. Was she trying to poison him? Gabriel lay unmoving, willing his brain to ignore the agonizing pain so he could formulate some sort of plan. The Indian woman pulled up his pant leg, unwrapped his wound and examined it.
Gabriel shook his head. His brain wasn’t working properly again because it looked as though his leg had been bandaged with the curtains Abigail made for the cabin. How did that happen? He tried to pull away, but the savage was stronger than she looked. She scraped a handful of weeds off his leg – he didn’t know how they had gotten stuck to his wound – then moved back to the hearth.
The squaw came back and slapped an evil–smelling mess of hot leaves on his wound. Gabriel stifled a cry. Ignoring him, she wrapped the curtains back around his leg then pressed the cup to his lips again. Gabriel was so thirsty he gulped down the nasty tasting brew. He’d welcome death by poison if it brought an end to the river of fire coursing through his body.
* * *
Asila stood over him, keeping watch as the young man sank back into unconsciousness. Her poultice was working, drawing the last of the venom out of his leg. The drink she’d given him, one she learned to brew early in her studies, would cool the fire in his blood.
She knew how to harvest leaves and berries, bark and roots from hundreds of native plants to cure fever, snakebite, and headaches. She could brew a tea that would ease the pain of childbirth and potions to bring new vigor to weary bodies. The only illnesses her people had no reliable cure for were those the white man had brought to her land, like the Fever that attacked Salai.
* * *
Gabriel jolted awake. Sunlight was pouring into the cabin. He’d overslept, but he still felt exhausted.
Bits of strange dreams from a restless night floated through his mind. He remembered one vividly – his beloved Abigail had been there in the cabin, kneeling by the hearth. Then she came to his bedside and put her arms around him. He remembered her warmth, her softness, as she cradled his head to her breast. The dream was so vivid he could swear he’d felt her gentle touch on his fevered brow.
He glanced toward the fireplace and choked back a startled cry.
Abigail was there. Again. Her back to him, her long dark hair gleaming in the sunlight, she gently rocked back and forth next to the fire in the chair he’d built for her. She turned her head at the sound, and he saw a strange face.
The tangled memories of the last twenty-four hours poured into his head all at once. The snakebite, the fever, the strange apparition nursing him in the darkness. Gabriel struggled to get out of bed and fell back against the pillow, weak as a newborn kitten.
It wasn’t Abigail by the fire. It was the Indian woman who tried to poison him last night. She was rocking a young child with huge black eyes and a head covered with short hair the same glossy dark color as hers. She said something to the child in a strange language then put the little one down on the floor and came toward the bed.
Now that he could see her clearly, Gabriel realized why he’d thought the Indian was his beloved wife. They were both tall and slender, with luxurious dark hair cascading down nearly to the waist. Abigail had always worn her hair up, except when she came to him at night. He loved to watch her getting ready for bed, unwinding the thick coil at the back of her head, then running the wooden hairbrush slowly through it, releasing her long locks from confinement. When she came to bed, he’d bury his hands in her hair and draw her face to his for a long lingering kiss.
But now that he’d had a chance to study her, he realized the woman looked nothing like his sweet Abigail. Her features were sharper, her face thinner, and her skin darker. Instead of a modest long-sleeved calico dress, she was clad in a skirt made of what looked like a deer hide, so short her knees and lower legs were completely exposed. She’d topped it with another deer hide fashioned into a cape that had a hole cut for her head to slip through.
Her arms were bare all the way to the shoulder and, through the large opening on the side of the cape, he glimpsed the curve of her breast. She raised one hand to touch his forehead, exposing herself even more. He felt a spark of purely physical desire then a stab of guilt, and closed his eyes.
Her hand was smooth and cool, and she smelled faintly of sweet clover. Gabriel shoved the hand away.
“What are you doing here? You’re one of those runaway Cherokee they’re searching for, aren’t you?”
She made some reply in the strange language and reached down, pulling up the leg of his pants.
Gabriel struggled to a sitting position. Calmly, she unwrapped the makeshift bandage she’d put over his wound and scraped off the pile of soggy leaves. Nodding her head in satisfaction, she headed back to the coffee pot sitting on a mound of glowing embers at the side of the hearth.
He glanced down at his leg. The swelling had gone down considerably. Angry reddish purple fang marks were still visible, but the vicious burning sensation running from his thigh to his toes had dimmed to a dull ache.
Gabriel started to slide out of bed, but the Indian hurried back, pushing him down and chiding him in her foreign tongue. She held yet another cup of hot liquid to his mouth. When he turned away, the woman grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, pouring it into his mouth so he was forced to swallow or choke.
He spluttered, and she laughed, saying something over her shoulder to the child. Gabriel glared at her, vowing that as soon as he was able, he’d take the rude savage over his knee for a sound spanking before sending her away with the soldiers.
Ignoring his anger, she went to the hearth and brought him a bowl of food. Although the tempting aroma set his stomach rumbling, Gabriel didn’t think he could eat a thing. It looked like the stew he’d made yesterday, but when he tried it, he couldn’t help sighing in delight. The dish was far tastier than his poor efforts at cooking. Rich with flavor, the broth was thick, like the gravy his mother used to make.
Gabriel polished off the entire bowl, telling himself he needed to eat to regain his strength. But after he finished, his head felt heavy, and his eyes kept drifting closed. His last conscious thought was that the heathen had tricked him, drugging his food with her potion so she could kill him in his sleep.
