The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,43

her hot, dusty body in an effort to wash away the grime.

“Ah,” she moaned. “What I wouldn’t be givin’ fer a sliver of soap.”

She’d never known it could feel so good to be wet. The current beneath the surface of the water was swift, but she felt no fear. And because she dared to let the river have its way, she missed seeing the Indian on the rise just above the bank. With a gentle kick, she bent her knees and relaxed as the river flow carried her out from the bank and into its depths.

Then out of nowhere, pain ripped through her scalp. Flailing helplessly against the tow, she realized something had her by the hair. She shrieked and kicked, swallowing more than her share of the river as the water gave her up to a greater force. Seconds later, she hit solid ground with a rude thump, deflating her lungs upon impact. Gasping and choking, she crawled to her knees, struggling for breath. When she could finally breathe, everything came out in a screech.

“Ye bleedin’ sod!” She swiped hair and water from her face and eyes. “Were ye about trying to drown me?”

Eyes Like Mole jerked and stared directly at Caitie. Not because he could suddenly see, but because the voice was female. His interest grew. So it was a white woman that he’d rescued! But her manner of speech was strange. She was from a tribe he did not know. He thought of his vision quest. Maybe she was the answer to his prayers. Maybe his ancestors had guided him to this woman from a far-away tribe. He thrust out his chest.

“You did not swim.”

Rage wilted into terror as Caitie looked up into the implacable copper face of the mounted Indian. With water streaming from her hair into her eyes, she dropped to her knees and made the sign of the cross. “Holy Mary, mother of God, help me now in me hour of need.”

Eyes Like Mole frowned. The woman was strange in ways other than her mode of dress. Now that he’d saved her from the river, she was on her knees, talking to herself at a rapid pace, and in a tongue he couldn’t understand.

He did not know that as Caitie had lapsed from English into Gaelic, she was swiftly calculating the distance between herself and the horse’s hooves, certain that if she tried to run, she could be squashed like a mouse underfoot. Believing her plight to be hopeless, she fell forward upon the ground in a weak, helpless heap.

Shrieking aloud, she pounded the earth in anger and fear. “Sweet Jesus and Mary, dear mother of God, how dare Ye be lettin’ me live through hell on the streets of Dublin only to be bringin’ me here to this godforsaken land to die at the hands of a heathen.”

Eyes Like Mole looked down at the shadow upon the ground, trying to squint past the blur to the woman beneath. It was no use. She was nothing but a vague shape with a loud mouth.

“You not die,” Eyes Like Mole scolded. “I, Eyes Like Mole, saved you. Get up, woman! You do not cry!”

Caitie choked on her last sob and lifted her head from the ground as reality sank in. He’s speaking the English tongue! Maybe there’ll be hope for me yet.

“How are ye knowin’ the English?” she asked.

“Scout for Army at fort. Know plenty about white man.”

Caitie glared. He might know plenty about white men, but he didn’t know beans about white women or he wouldn’t have treated her so roughly.

“So ye were draggin’ me by the hair of the head and out of me bath. To what purpose?”

His answer was slow in coming. Taking a chance, Caitie got to her feet and took several steps backward for a better view. From where she stood, he looked to be only a few inches taller than she was. His body was as brown as the earth beneath her feet, and his long black hair was bound up in two hanks over his ears and wrapped with colorful cloth all the way down. His face was broad. His mouth was wide. And he stared down that hook of a nose at her like a bird of prey. But little did Caitie know that those small, dark eyes saw nothing of her person other than a shape.

While Caitie had been surveying him, Eyes Like Mole had been doing some thinking of his own. She’d asked him a