Read Online Winter's Touch by Janis Reams Hudson - Free Book Online
Authors: Janis Reams Hudson
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shadow of the closest tepee into the moonlight, the first thing Carson noticed was the gleam of moonlight along the knife held tightly in a fist.
Carson’s heart pounded like a drum inside his chest. He had a choice, it seemed. He might be able to kick with his bound feet if the Indian was stupid enough to get in front of him, but he doubted it would do him much good. There wasn’t a thing he could do about that knife. Killing him was going to be disgustingly easy for the sneaking bastard.
He could yell, but he would certainly be dead before anyone heard him.
Okay. This was it, then. He was going to die. He would fight if he got the chance, but as long as he was tied to the tree, the outcome was inevitable. The only question would be how he chose to meet it—cringing, begging for mercy, or with whatever dignity he could muster.
Regrets swamped him, but the largest, the one that nearly choked him, was that he had brought Megan and Bess to Colorado. Please, God, keep them safe. Help Innes get them out of here alive. Help them find their way back home to Gussie.
That brief prayer steadied him and slowed his heart. It was all he had time for before the Indian was on him. Only then did he realize…it was a woman! He hadn’t been able to see her shape because she was wrapped in a blanket.
She bent down and leaned toward his head. In a quiet whisper, she said in English, “I’ve come to cut you loose.”
Carson recognized the voice with it’s soft Scottish burr. It was Innes’s daughter.
“My brother has horses ready, and the girls are with him. I will take you there.” Then she slipped behind the tree.
After a slight tug on the rawhide around his wrists, his hands were free. His shoulders screamed with pain as he pulled his arms forward for the first time in more hours than he cared to think about. The blood flowing back into his hands made them throb with agony.
“Where’s your father?” he asked in a low, urgent whisper.
“I do not know, but we must hurry.” She crept to his feet to sever the last of his bonds. “Hunter overheard Crooked Oak say he planned to kill you this night.” Her knife sliced through the rawhide around his ankles. “Quickly. We must go.”
To Carson’s chagrin, she had to help him to his feet. It took him a minute of leaning against the tree before he could feel anything below his ankles, and the pain of returning circulation had him grinding his teeth.
As she bent down and retrieved the strips of rawhide, Carson heard a noise. An indrawn breath, the shuffle of moccasins along the ground. A quiet word that to Carson sounded like a curse, although it was not spoken in English.
Beside the nearest tepee, twenty yards away, the shadow of a man loomed. A man drawing an arrow back to fire. An arrow aimed at Carson’s chest.
Winter Fawn stood and looked toward the shadow. “Crooked Oak, no!”
With a curse of his own, Carson tried to shove her away. “Get down,” he warned harshly.
But she didn’t get down, didn’t duck out of the line of fire. Instead, just as the man loosed the arrow, she committed one of the bravest, most foolhardy acts Carson had ever witnessed. Dropping her blanket, she turned and threw herself at his chest, shielding him from the arrow.
She slammed into him hard. Her breath left her in an abrupt umph . In reflex, his arms came around her to hold her. He felt a stab of pain in his side. He stared down at her, and in the moonlight he saw shock, bewilderment, and pain in her eyes.
Another rustle of sound had him clasping her close and looking sharply toward the shadows where the man stood. A second man, big and burly— Innes —rushed toward the first, and with a grunt, struck him in the head with the butt of a rifle.
The Indian fell to the ground.
Innes rushed to them. “Damn the bloody bastard,” came his harsh whisper. “He’s shot me lassie!”
It was then that Carson realized the cause of the sharp pain in his side. “He’s shot both of
Carson’s heart pounded like a drum inside his chest. He had a choice, it seemed. He might be able to kick with his bound feet if the Indian was stupid enough to get in front of him, but he doubted it would do him much good. There wasn’t a thing he could do about that knife. Killing him was going to be disgustingly easy for the sneaking bastard.
He could yell, but he would certainly be dead before anyone heard him.
Okay. This was it, then. He was going to die. He would fight if he got the chance, but as long as he was tied to the tree, the outcome was inevitable. The only question would be how he chose to meet it—cringing, begging for mercy, or with whatever dignity he could muster.
Regrets swamped him, but the largest, the one that nearly choked him, was that he had brought Megan and Bess to Colorado. Please, God, keep them safe. Help Innes get them out of here alive. Help them find their way back home to Gussie.
That brief prayer steadied him and slowed his heart. It was all he had time for before the Indian was on him. Only then did he realize…it was a woman! He hadn’t been able to see her shape because she was wrapped in a blanket.
She bent down and leaned toward his head. In a quiet whisper, she said in English, “I’ve come to cut you loose.”
Carson recognized the voice with it’s soft Scottish burr. It was Innes’s daughter.
“My brother has horses ready, and the girls are with him. I will take you there.” Then she slipped behind the tree.
After a slight tug on the rawhide around his wrists, his hands were free. His shoulders screamed with pain as he pulled his arms forward for the first time in more hours than he cared to think about. The blood flowing back into his hands made them throb with agony.
“Where’s your father?” he asked in a low, urgent whisper.
“I do not know, but we must hurry.” She crept to his feet to sever the last of his bonds. “Hunter overheard Crooked Oak say he planned to kill you this night.” Her knife sliced through the rawhide around his ankles. “Quickly. We must go.”
To Carson’s chagrin, she had to help him to his feet. It took him a minute of leaning against the tree before he could feel anything below his ankles, and the pain of returning circulation had him grinding his teeth.
As she bent down and retrieved the strips of rawhide, Carson heard a noise. An indrawn breath, the shuffle of moccasins along the ground. A quiet word that to Carson sounded like a curse, although it was not spoken in English.
Beside the nearest tepee, twenty yards away, the shadow of a man loomed. A man drawing an arrow back to fire. An arrow aimed at Carson’s chest.
Winter Fawn stood and looked toward the shadow. “Crooked Oak, no!”
With a curse of his own, Carson tried to shove her away. “Get down,” he warned harshly.
But she didn’t get down, didn’t duck out of the line of fire. Instead, just as the man loosed the arrow, she committed one of the bravest, most foolhardy acts Carson had ever witnessed. Dropping her blanket, she turned and threw herself at his chest, shielding him from the arrow.
She slammed into him hard. Her breath left her in an abrupt umph . In reflex, his arms came around her to hold her. He felt a stab of pain in his side. He stared down at her, and in the moonlight he saw shock, bewilderment, and pain in her eyes.
Another rustle of sound had him clasping her close and looking sharply toward the shadows where the man stood. A second man, big and burly— Innes —rushed toward the first, and with a grunt, struck him in the head with the butt of a rifle.
The Indian fell to the ground.
Innes rushed to them. “Damn the bloody bastard,” came his harsh whisper. “He’s shot me lassie!”
It was then that Carson realized the cause of the sharp pain in his side. “He’s shot both of
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