“That depends.”
“Depends?” Had he ever known that word? A heartbeat passed before it surfaced in his memory.
“My answer depends on what you mean to do with me,” she explained as if she were talking to a backward child. When he did not answer at once, the fear stole back into her eyes. “All I want is to go back to Fort Pitt,” she said in a small strained voice. “Just let me go. Is that such a difficult thing to do?”
Wolf Heart scowled as the dilemma he had wrestled all morning closed in on him. “Fort Pitt is many days’ walk from here. These woods are filled with dangers, and you are not strong-”
“I’m stronger than I look!” she interrupted. “I came close to getting the best of you, if I say so myself!”
“You wouldn’t come so close to getting the best of a puma or a bear-or another man like that one.” He jerked his head toward the buckskin-clad body that lay in the grass, a stone’s toss away. “But I’d wager you’d be more likely to starve, or drown, or maybe get bitten by a copperhead.”
“You could take me back!” She strained upward against his hands, her eyes so hopeful that they tore at his heart. “My uncle, Colonel Hancock, would pay you a handsome reward.”
“What would I do with money? I am Shawnee!” The words burst out of Wolf Heart, resolving his own question. Shawnee law demanded that all captives be turned over to the village council for judgment. To defy that law, to go against custom and set the girl free, would be an abnegation of his duty as a Shawnee warrior.
He willed his expression, and his heart, to harden. “You are my prisoner,” he said. “I must take you back to my people.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Your people are my peoplewhite!”
“Sit up.” Wolf Heart ignored the sting of her words as he jerked her roughly to a sitting position and bound her wrists behind her back with a strip of deer hide. She did not speak, but he could feel the anger in her slim, taut body and see it in the set of her delicate jaw. When he pulled her to her feet, she did not protest, but he knew her mind was working. Given the chance, the girl would make every effort to escape.
When he motioned for her to walk ahead of him, she moved silently into place. She was footsore and hungry, and he knew he was being cruel, but he did not trust himself enough to treat her gently. Not yet, at least.
Abruptly she swung back to face him. Blazing defiance, her eyes flickered toward the dead man who lay facedown in the grass, the arrow still protruding from his back. “What about him?” she asked in a voice drawn thin by fury.
“That one is past our help.” Wolf Heart turned away from the corpse, which was already beginning to attract flies.
“I can see that,” the girl snapped. “But since you’re a Shawnee, I thought you might be wanting to take his scalp.”
Wolf Heart glared at her, his temper stirring.
“Go ahead,” she persisted. “He was an evil man, and his death was no loss. Show me what a true savage you’ve become!”
Her sarcasm cut as no blade could. Wolf Heart, who had never killed a white man before, let alone taken a white scalp, bit back the urge to seize her shoulders in his hands and shake her until she whimpered for forgiveness.
“Well?” she demanded, her eyes flinging a challenge.
Freezing all emotion, he caught her elbow, spun her away from him and shoved her to a reluctant walk.
Clarissa stumbled along the forest trail, feeling more dead than alive. Her blistered, bleeding feet were beyond pain. Her stomach was a clenched knot of hunger and fear. Only anger kept her moving-that, and her resolve to make this self-proclaimed Shawnee pay dearly for having taken her prisoner.
“It’s a lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” She tossed her hair, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her complain.
Wolf Heart’s only reply was brooding silence.
“I’ve always wanted to explore the wilderness,” she persisted with mock pleasantry. “And what a splendid guide I have! A man who knows every bird, every tree-”
“That’s enough!” His voice, behind her, was a low growl of irritation. “Keep that up, and every ear within a day’s run will be able to hear you!”
“Oh, how nice!” She forced her miserable feet to a lilting skip and began to sing. “‘In Scarlet Town where I was born/ There lived a fair maid dwellin’/ Made every lad cry well a-day/ Her name was Barbara-’’’
“Stop it!” he snapped, his massive hand catching her arm and whipping her around to face him. “Do you want me to gag your mouth, tie your legs and drag you along the trail?”
Clarissa gulped back her fear, forcing herself to meet his blazing blue eyes. “Well, at least that might save some wear on my poor blistered feet!” she declared saucily. “Yes, indeed, why don’t you try it?”
He shot her a thunderous scowl. Then the breath eased wearily out of him, and Clarissa knew she had won a victory, however small. “Sit,” he ordered her gruffly.
“There?” She glanced toward a toadstool-encrusted log.
“Sit anywhere. I don’t care. Just keep your mouth shut while I tend to your feet. We still have a lot of walking to do.”
“How much walking?” Clarissa sank on to the log, exhausted to the point of collapse but determined not to show it. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the place where I left my canoe.” He crouched on one bent knee, his heavy black brows meeting in a scowl as he lifted and examined the bruised, blistered sole of her foot.
“And from there?”
“To my village, far down the river.”
“And what will become of me then?” Clarissa’s voice dropped to a choked whisper as the gravity of her situation sank home. This was no game, no idle contest of wit and will. This was a battle for her life.
He was bent low, his craggy features compressed into a frown as his fingers picked away the thorns and tiny rocks that had embedded themselves in her tender flesh.
“You didn’t answer me,” she said, feigning boldness. “What will happen when we reach your village?”
“You will be brought before the council,” he said slowly, his eyes on his task. “And you will be tried.”
“Tried?” Clarissa’s body gave an involuntary jerk. “Tried for what?”
He glanced up at her, his eyes the icy blue of a frozen lake in winter. “To see if you are worthy,” he answered.
“Worthy?” Clarissa could feel her heart fluttering like a trapped bird inside her rib cage.
“Yes,” he answered in a low voice. “Worthy to live.”
