“They’re our friends.”
“Hell. You haven’t known them that long. Yet you and your woman gambled your lives to save theirs.” Wesley shook his head. “I’ll never understand people like you.”
“People who care for other people?”
“No. Whites who don’t give a damn about their own color. You took a red wife and you made friends with these blacks. Don’t you have any pride? Don’t you have any dignity?”
“My wife could be any color under the sun and I would still be proud to be her husband.” Nate was angered by the insult, and he fed on that anger for renewed vigor. “She’s the finest woman I ever met.”
“She’s still a red squaw.”
Nate balled his big fists and would have struck him if not for the unwavering muzzle of the Kentucky rifle.
“I suppose you don’t believe in slavery, either?”
“Need you even ask?”
Wesley let out a long sigh. “One of those. You’re from north of the Mason-Dixon, aren’t you?”
“I was born and raised in New York.”
“That explains it. You damn Yankees with your soft hearts. You cry and moan about how awful it is that we in the South lord it over blacks, and then you go and try to lord it over us by demanding we do as you want whether we want to or not, and set all the blacks free. You’re a bunch of hypocrites.”
“Making slaves of people is wrong.”
“Slavery has been around since Bible times. It’s nothing new.”
Nate had more to say but just then the Worths were shoved and prodded into the firelight. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Samuel’s ankles had been bound, as well, and the only way he could move was to hop like a rabbit.
Emala saw Nate, and sobbed.
“Where’s Winona?”
“Your bitch is coming,” Trumbo said.
Nate churned with fear. He scarcely breathed. When three figures came out of the dark he started to rise, but Wesley took a half step.
“Stay right where you are, mountain man.”
Olan was on one side of Winona, Bromley on the other. She was as limp as a wet cloth, her long black hair hanging over her face.
“Here’s your squaw,” Olan said, and laughed.
They hurled Winona roughly to the ground and she rolled onto her back and was still.
Her hair fell from her face.
Nate looked, and thought he would scream.
Chapter Sixteen
They’d beaten her. They beat her about the face and head and neck, beat her so bad that every inch of skin was a bruise or a welt or a bump. Dry blood caked her chin and the corners of her mouth, and red ribbons were under her nose. They must have mashed her face in the dirt after they beat her because her wounds were smeared with it, and dirt was in her hair and speckled the top of her dress.
Deep within Nate King something snapped. He stared down at the woman he loved more than he loved anything or anyone, and it was as if an invisible hand reached into his chest, wrapped around his heart, and squeezed. A red-hot blaze of fury coursed through his veins and his temples throbbed to the beat of pure rage. He had thought he would scream, and now he did. But not a scream of anguish or despair. He screamed a scream of fury. He screamed in molten hate. He screamed as a man screams when all he is or was or ever will be lay hurt before his eyes. He screamed a scream ripped from the depths of his being.
Nate was up off his knees in a blur. The Kentucky boomed but he sidestepped and the slug missed. He drove his fist into Wesley’s face with all the might of his iron muscles. Flesh pulped and teeth crunched, and Wesley went down, spitting blood. Still a blur, Nate whipped a backhand that caught Olan across the jaw and sent him tumbling. A pistol cracked, Bromley this time, but again the shot missed. Nate kicked him in the groin, and it was as if a hog squealed at its own slaughter.
Then Trumbo pounced, closing from behind and wrapping his huge arms around Nate’s. “I’ve got him!”
Nate rammed his head back and cartilage gave way with a wet splat. Trumbo grunted, and his grip slackened. With a powerful heave, Nate broke free and whirled. Trumbo reached for him, but Nate launched an uppercut that started at his knee and lifted Trumbo onto his heels and sent him crashing to the earth.
That left the blond man, the one called Kleist. He had wisely stayed back and now he took aim with a pistol, thinking he had the time.
Nate bent and grabbed the unlit end of a burning brand from the fire and threw it at Kleist’s face. Kleist did what anyone would do—he ducked. It gave Nate the second he needed to take a long bound and drive his fist deep into the blond man’s gut.
All the men were down, some not moving, some thrashing and cursing and spitting.
Nate had eyes only for Winona. He dashed to her side and gently lifted her. The sight of her battered, bloodied face so close to his caused another cry to be torn from his innermost being, and then he was racing for the trees with her clutched protectively to his broad chest.
“Stop him, damn it!” Wesley bellowed. “Shoot him, someone!”
Someone tried. A pistol blasted and lead buzzed by Nate’s ear. A few more strides and he was in heavy cover. He kept running. He ran and ran until his sides were heaving. Caked with sweat, filled with dread, he stopped in a clear space and lowered Winona onto her back.
“Oh, God.”
Nate fought down another cry. He touched her cheek, which was crisscrossed with welts and terribly swollen, and his eyes moistened.
“If they’ve killed you…”
Nate couldn’t finish. He clasped her wrist and felt for a pulse and nearly whooped for joy when he found one, strong and regular. He pressed an ear to her bosom to listen to her heart.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Swallowing to rid his throat of a lump, Nate raised his head. He had lost all sense of direction. The North Star gave him the clue he needed. Apparently he was east of the slave hunters’ camp. Which meant the river should be to his left.
Picking up Winona again with the utmost care, Nate carried her to a grassy flat at the water’s edge.
“Please,” Nate said. He cupped his hand and dribbled water on her face and neck. She groaned, and stirred. He kissed her, then dipped his hand in again and trickled drops between her parted lips and down her throat.
Winona coughed and blinked, and her swollen mouth curled in a hint of a smile. “Are you trying to drown me, Husband?”
“Thank the Lord.”
Winona coughed some more and went to turn her head, and winced. “I take it you saved me?”
Nate couldn’t talk for the new lump in his throat, so he nodded.
“You were a bit late this time.”
Nate bowed his forehead to her shoulder and sobbed. He held her sides and trembled.
“Husband?” Winona had never seen him like this, not in all the years of their togetherness.
“I thought—” Nate said, and couldn’t finish.
“Oh, sweet one.” Winona ran her fingers through his black mane. “I am here and I am alive. Be strong.”
Nate nodded. Sniffling, he sat up and wiped his face with a sleeve. “If I ever did lose you, I wouldn’t be able to go on living.”
“Husband!” Winona said again, and winced again, as well. “I sure do hurt. I killed one of them and they were mad. They beat me, Olan and that Bromley and the German, Kleist.”
“Not Wesley or Trumbo?”
“No. They stood and watched, and Wesley said not to kill me, that I was bait to bring you, and they must keep me alive until I served my purpose.”
“They’re all going to die.”
Winona rose onto her elbows and squinted through puffy eyes. “The Worths, Grizzly Killer? Where are they?”