Nighthawk by Beth Trissel
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. Nighthawk COPYRIGHT © 2008 by Beth Trissel All rights reserved. This is an “unedited” as is title. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Contact Information:
[email protected] Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press The Wild Rose Press PO Box 706 Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706 Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History First American Rose Edition, 2008 Free Read Published in the United States of America
May, 1783, the Virginia Frontier, the Allegheny Mountains “Reuben!” Abby Hasting’s voice was hoarse from shouting. Searching this far from the cabin was a mistake, but she was alone and her empty belly gnawed at her with the ferocity of a trapped fox. Shivering, she hugged her crimson cloak around her. The raw breeze whipped her striped petticoat about her ankles, its hem muddied from puddles. Her shoes and stockings were wet. Damp cold seeped into her bones. Where was Reuben? He’d never been away hunting this many days before. Not that they’d been wed long. Still, one week gone— Kree-eee-ar! The piercing cry of a hawk shrilled from overhead. Glancing up, Abby saw a blur of russet tail feathers. The misty forest canopy spun in leafy circles. Her head throbbed. Chills ran down her aching spine to her weak knees. The basket in her numb fingers slipped to the earth, spilling green poke shoots over the moss. There went all the nourishment she’d gleaned from these harsh ridges. Winter food stores had been depleted; fair spring was the starving time. A genteel girl from Eastern Virginia never should have wed Captain Reuben Hastings and come this far west into the Alleghenies. Abby’s father wouldn’t have let her if he’d only survived the bloody 1
Beth Trissel
revolution. Reuben’s knowledge of this Godless place wasn’t a great deal better than hers, but the lure of the land given to him for service in the war had overpowered him. If this was freedom, maybe they would have been better off under King George. Abby’s conscience pricked her. Many good men had fallen in that drawn out conflict and she shouldn’t criticize her husband off Lord only knew where, maybe suffering. He wasn’t charitable, more like a gruff he-bear, but at least he’d fed her enough to survive. Until now. Her shaky legs gave way and she sank onto the forest floor alongside her basket. Hazy branches revolved above her, the damp wood’s scent filling her nose. She had no idea how far she was from their log home or the nearest neighbor. She would die out here lost and alone. Not that easily! Groaning, each breath raspy in her throat, she pushed up on ice-cold hands and bruised knees. She’d crawl. No. Walk. Using all her strength, she struggled to her feet. Head swimming, she staggered back the way she’d come. At least she thought it was. Fog whitened the ferny undergrowth and clouded the trail. The stream sounded nearer than she’d remembered. She shrieked as loose ground gave way underfoot. Scrabbling for a toehold, she careened down the muddy bank and into the icy stream. The frigid current caught her in its grip and swept her away. Gasping at the shocking cold, she flailed to keep her head above water. Instinct told her to grab an overhanging limb and cling. She couldn’t hold on long. “Help me!” She choked out the futile plea. **** A woman? Zane Cameron stopped on the trail. The cry came from the direction of the stream. What in blazes was a female doing out here alone? This 2
Nighthawk
wild country was dangerous enough for a cagey man. He did an about-face. Sliding the musket strap from his shoulder, he grasped the long firearm and ran back over the misty path. Like a buck taking flight, he dodged stones and sprang over fallen branches. He skirted an enormous downed tree trunk and pushed through the brush. Branches snagged his brown hunting shirt. Briars snatched at his leather breeches and wool leggings. He tore free. Chest pounding, he arrived at the rain-swollen stream. Zane scanned the flow with eyes honed to detect the barest hint of man or beast. Woodland debris bobbed in the water. No woman. She must be farther downstream. He sprinted along the edge of the swift current. Whoever this unfortunate female was, she was about to drown. Even without knowing her, it goaded him. Some greenhorn must have brought her into the frontier. Idiot! There! He spotted a young woman clinging to a branch as the torrent did its damndest to rip her away. “Hold on! I’m coming!” Her face, white with fear and fatigue, swiveled toward him. He tossed his musket on the ground and sidestepped down the slick earth, wedging his moccasins against stones and roots. He gripped the branch she held to. It was firm beneath his hand. He leaned out over the swirling water. Careful. One slip and he’d tumble in. Vivid green eyes met his. They were the hue of summer leaves and marbled with brown like the forest. He reached out and snagged her shoulder, digging in his fingers so her cloak wouldn’t come away in his hand. “I’ve got you!” She clutched at him. “Don’t! You could pull us both in!” A look of misgiving flitted through her panicked 3
Beth Trissel
gaze, and her arms went slack. In that moment of trust, he pulled her back up onto the sodden bank. Even soaked through, she wasn’t as heavy as he’d have expected for a grown woman. Likely she was undernourished, and utterly spent. She sagged onto the moss, eyes shut, water running from her in rivulets. She trembled and her face was pale beneath streaks of mud. Still, she possessed an unmistakable prettiness. With proper care, she’d be a beauty, rare in this place. Her cascade of hair was red, also unsual. Bluish-black bruises marked her cheeks—from tree branches or the back of a man’s hand? Anger flashed through Zane. He suspected the latter. “I must warm you,” he said to himself as much as to her. Her eyelids fluttered and closed again. His cabin was a few miles farther west, tucked into a hollow between the ridges. There was nothing else to do but carry her there. When her man turned up, he’d deal with the brute. For now, she barely clung to life. The water had brought Zane a gift, and he didn’t intend to lose her. **** Had Abby died and gone to heaven? Sweet warmth flowed over her and she heard the crackle of a wood fire, smelled the tantalizing scent of game roasting. A strong arm slipped beneath her shoulders. “Drink this slowly,” a man said. His voice was strangely familiar. As if in a dream, she sipped the savory broth. The flavor of meat and spring onions tasted good. Sighing with more contentment than she’d known in months, she snuggled farther down into her nest of blankets. She roused again at the welcome feel of the man’s arm. This time she summoned the energy to 4
Nighthawk
look at him. His tender gaze met hers with eyes colored like a pewter sky. How long it had been since she’d seen kindness in a man’s face? His features were carved in rugged lines. His nose was slightly bent, likely from a fight, and a thin scar ran down one cheek. Whiskers darkened his chin, just enough to outline his strong profile. But it was his eyes that drew her...she could dissolve in those gray pools. The spicy aroma of sassafras wafted from the cup he held to her lips. She drank the tea sweetened with honey. Divine. Further rousing from her stupor, she skimmed her eyes past his to the beams overhead. Bunches of fragrant herbs and dried roots hung from the blackened wood. She swept her gaze over the sturdy cabin. The furnishings were simple but appeared well made, as if by a craftsman. An oak cupboard held mugs, trenchers, and stoneware. She spotted kegs of spirits and sacks of grain. A snug bed was built along one wall. Before her, an orange fire glowed in the massive stone hearth. The meaty scent of stew rose from the black iron kettle. She sensed the thick fur of a bearskin beneath her and realized she was naked under the covers. He must have stripped off her wet clothes before wrapping her. She saw no one else present. No woman. Her cheeks warmed and she returned her eyes to the man from whom she had few secrets left. “How can I thank you?” she whispered. He set the cup aside. “Live, fair one.” Had he truly called her fair? Reuben had declared her plain. To live here with this man would be wondrous. “I don’t even know your name.” “Or I yours.” “Abby Hastings.” He arched one dark eyebrow. “Miss?” “Mrs.,” she said with wrenching reluctance. 5
Beth Trissel
He was silent for a moment. “I am Zane Cameron to some. Others call me Nighthawk.” She looked closely at her rescuer and took in his raven-black hair and high cheekbones. Then she knew. “You are part Indian.” His brow furrowed and he gave a nod. “Shawnee.” “But you speak English and seem so…” Her words trailed off. She bit her lip before she said white. “I do not live with the tribe. I am a free spirit.” If only Abby were. “I am a trapped bird,” she said. ‘Twas blasphemy, she supposed, but she couldn’t help it. The edges of his mouth tightened. “Do not fear. I will free you when you have the strength to fly.” “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you were trapping me.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “No?” God help her. “No, Mr. Cameron.” “Zane or Nighthawk.” “Zane, then.” Black despair stood between her and the man whose arm still encircled her as though she belonged to him. How she wished she did. “Captain Hastings won’t ever let me go.” Zane frowned. Lifting one hand, he trailed it lightly over her bruised cheek. “Your husband did this?” “Yes,” she said, savoring Zane’s gentleness. “The Shawnee do not beat their women or children. They are precious.” “I didn’t know that.” He smoothed a tendril of hair at her forehead. “There is much you do not know. You cannot survive alone in these mountains.” Tiny shivers tingled through her at his touch. “Reuben went hunting days ago. But he will return.” Her stomach knotted at that possibility and the 6
Nighthawk
thought of leaving Zane. He and this cozy shelter he had built were as different from the life she had come to know as was Heaven from Hell. Zane’s gaze caressed her. “Do you wish to stay with me?” Yearning for the love she had never known welled up inside her like an overflowing stream. She did not dare speak her want. “How can I, when I promised to love, honor, and obey—” Zane finished the oath. “Until death.” She nodded mutely, hating the words. “And you have.” “How?” “Shh.” He bent his head and slowly covered her lips with his. Had she even breathed until now? Surely God wouldn’t deny her one sacred kiss? The wind whistled in the trees outside the cabin as she dissolved against Zane, famished for far more than food. And how his lips fed her. “You are paca tamsah, a beautiful woman,” he said, and slipped his arm inside the blankets. His other arm followed and he slid his hands across her bare shoulders, around her back. Exquisite tingles followed his every touch. Leaving the covers behind, he drew her to him, his linen shirt soft against her breasts. Warm strength enveloped her. No man had ever held her with such sublime intimacy. And this one shouldn’t be! “I can’t—” She gulped. “You mustn’t.” “Abby,” he whispered, his breath warm in her ear. “Stay with me.” “Aren’t you listening? I am a married woman.” “I heard every word. You are a widow.” She stiffened in his hold. “Dear Lord, Zane. You can’t kill Reuben—” “Not that. When you said Captain Hastings, I remembered the man I met three days ago. I never 7
Beth Trissel
thought you would marry such an old man.” “Desperate times. And he isn’t that ancient,” she said. “Well, perhaps in one regard.” She hesitated. “He had difficulty fulfilling his—husbandly duty.” “Gitchee, Good,” Zane chuckled and buried his lips in the curve of her neck. She shivered in delight and distraction under his sensuous assault. “Wait—what of this fellow you met?” “He spoke his name as he died.” She sucked in her breath. “From what?” “Not my hand. Lightning struck him. “ Abby remembered the violent storm. “Thunder birds were angry. Their wings beat out such fury as to shake the earth. Their eyes flashed fire. Thunder birds have freed you, my fair dove.” She basked in the light of Zane’s eyes. “And what of the Nighthawk?” “For many moons he has soared alone. Now he seeks a mate. For life, forever. Will you be that woman?” Abby answered with a soft, slow kiss.
8
