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Asila sighed, lifting the bowl from his limp hands. This one was a difficult patient. He fought her efforts to help him, forcing her to add a sleeping potion to his meal. The dressing on his leg needed to be changed, and it was important he lie still for a few more hours, while her hot poultice drew the last dregs of the venom out of his body. She tugged off his sweat-soaked shirt, planning to wash it while he slept.
He dozed peacefully in the sunlight coming through the window, and Asila finally had a chance to look at him. Last night, she’d tried to shield her face from his gaze as much as possible, never meeting his eyes. She hoped to make her escape before he’d seen enough of her to describe her to the soldiers.
His body was hard and lean, the body of a brave warrior. Well-defined muscles rippled under the skin as she ran a practiced hand down his chest. His body felt cooler to the touch. She smiled. Her Medicine was working, easing the fever. She touched his forehead, gently smoothing back a lock of curly dark hair from his brow. Though his skin was still warmer than she’d have liked, the sheen of sweat had disappeared.
A rough stubble covered the lower part of his face. Cherokee men did not grow facial hair. Intrigued, she ran a fingertip over his jawline. The hairs were coarse and sharp, like the bristles of a brush, not soft and smooth like the curly lock she’d brushed back off his forehead. Asila traced the outline of his lips, wondering how it would feel to kiss a man with a beard.
She felt a tug on her leg and smiled down at the toddler. Fortunately her other patient was thriving. Asila’s heart soared. A few doses of her makeshift potion, hours of uninterrupted rest, a tummy soothed with a bit of warm food, and the little one was once again her cheerful self. Although she was weak, the heat of the Fever on her skin had lessened. Asila hoped the child would soon be lurching around the cabin on wobbly legs, happily exploring her new surroundings.
Since her potion would keep the farmer asleep for several hours, Asila decided she’d make good use of the time. Slipping the quiver with her bow and arrows over her shoulder, she picked up Salai.
“Sssh. Come on, little squirrel,” she whispered. “Let’s go get our dinner.” Toting the baby on her hip, she headed toward the field where the farmer had been tending his crops.
Asila nodded in approval. He’d worked hard. Plump ears of corn on stalks taller than her head stood in long rows, flanked by more rows of beans, tomatoes, and squash. Apparently he hadn’t learned the Cherokee method of planting, with runner beans climbing up several cornstalks clustered together for support and squash spreading out below to shade the ground, keeping it cool and free of weeds.
“Look at this, Salai. He must toil in the heat for hours, hoeing weeds between the rows and breaking up the bare earth so the rain can soak into this sunbaked crust of soil.”
She tucked Salai into a shady spot and gave her an ear of green corn to gnaw on. The child was teething, and the firm cob would give her something to soothe her constant urge to bite. Then she hid between the cornstalks.
It wasn’t long before a fat rabbit ventured out of the woods to nibble on the tender beans just beginning to sprout on a plant a few rows away. Asila drew her bow and sent an arrow flying. The rabbit jerked then fell. She ran to the limp form, murmuring a prayer of thanks for this gift to the Spirit who watched over woodland creatures. Gathering it up, she stopped to pick a handful of the tiny beans, adding a few green tomatoes and several small squash to her pouch.
She scooped up Salai and headed back to the cabin. On the way, she smelled the pungent aroma of ramp, the wild green onion that popped up at the edge of wetlands in early spring. Every year her people welcomed the coming of nature’s abundance and warm weather with a feast of mountain trout coated in cornmeal and fried with ramps. A handful of the white bulbs with their bright green shoots went into her pouch, along with seeds from a nearby plant her people used to add a sharp bite of heat to their food. She’d use just a little to balance the strong taste of the ramps.
Back at the cabin, Asila was relieved to see the young man still asleep. She cleaned the rabbit, prepared a flavorful dish using the vegetables and wild herbs she’d gathered, and put it on the fire to simmer. In her village, she’d have served the stew with warm chestnut bread made from a mixture of cornmeal and ground chestnuts wrapped in corn husks, then dropped into boiling water. But she had no chestnuts, so she made do with plain cornmeal she found on a shelf in the cupboard, cooking flat cakes in an iron skillet over the fire.
She headed back outdoors with Salai to the small creek near the cabin, taking the farmer’s filthy shirt along to wash it. Then she scrubbed the dirt from her deerskin cloak, laying it on the grass in the sun to dry along with the farmer’s shirt and the baby’s light shift.
Stripping off her short skirt, Asila sat down in the stream with the child in her arms and let the cool water flow over them. Cradling Salai in her lap, she showed the little one how to kick and splash both of them with water. Salai thought it was great fun, kicking and giggling as Asila washed her.
Crushing the leaves and flowers of several aromatic herbs from her medicine bag, she rubbed them into the baby’s hair. She massaged a bigger handful into her own scalp, working it through her long tresses. Finally, she lay back in the stream, running her hands through Salai’s short hair, then dipping her head underwater to let the current rinse the herbs away.
The clothes were still damp, so she gathered them up to finish drying by the fire. She put on her short skirt, plucked the naked baby from a soft patch of grass, and walked back to the cabin with her breasts bare, long hair flowing over them, as the women of her clan often did.
As she stepped into the dimly lit cabin Asila glanced across the room to make sure her patient was still asleep.,
The bed was empty.
From behind the door, strong hands plucked Salai from her grasp and deposited the child on the floor. Before she could strike out, she was dragged out of the cabin and back onto the porch. The door slammed shut.
Asila found herself on the porch steps, upended over a pair of thighs as hard as tree trunks. Both her wrists were captured in one big hand while the other yanked her skirt up. She heard an outraged roar then the resounding whack of a callused palm on her naked bottom.
Chapter Three
Asila bit back a scream. Her people did not show fear or weakness to an enemy. Silently she struggled to free herself while a volley of harsh whacks rained down on her backside.
“You broke into my house, stole my food, tried to poison me while I was weakened by snakebite…” The farmer punctuated his tirade with stern smacks. “You’re a half-naked savage, coming into my home to tempt me into sin, brazenly flaunting your body. You aren’t even wearing drawers under your skirt like a decent woman!”
Asila’s bottom was on fire. Never had she been struck in this manner. Her people did not discipline their children with physical punishment, and no man had dared to raise a hand to her once she was grown. As a Medicine Woman, she was treated with respect, even feared, for the power of her craft. But this arrogant brute had her pinned down, smacking first one cheek then the other in a relentless rhythm.
She could endure the burning pain his rough palm ignited. But the humiliation of being trapped facedown over his lap, unable to strike out or break free, brought tears of helpless rage to her eyes.
She hadn’t expected the farmer to recover so quickly. She’d underestimated him. He was strong and moved swiftly, like a Cherokee warrior. She was furious with herself for allowing him to take her by surprise.
Asila shifted her weight on his lap, at the same time flexing her wrists to test his hold for any sign of weakness. She felt the sudden stirring of his manhood underneath her. With another furious roar, he shoved her off his lap.
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