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  The rain-slick branch he was clutching felt cold beneath his hands. As the moments crept by, Hance began to wonder if the rafters might have put in for the night somewhere up river. Just as he was about to return to shore, a tiny red spot in the distance caught his eye.

  "It's them," Wiley whispered. He and his brother were similarly poised in the tree. "Get ready."

  Hance tensed and saw the tip of a cheroot in the darkness. It glowed brightly for a moment as the man smoked on it; then it made a red arc and disappeared into the river with a soft hiss. The water stirred as a pole dipped, steering the raft at the precise angle to the tree.

  A shoal gave the raft only one option: to pass directly beneath Hance and his companions.

  He didn't need the urging of the Harpers to tell him the moment was right. Hance didn't hesitate at the ten-foot drop. He came down squarely onto the raft, feeling it lurch as the Harpers did likewise.

  Hance recovered with a lithe movement, spinning. He didn't see much of the raftsmen. The plan was to overpower them, send them into the woods to lick a few well-placed wounds.

  But it didn't happen that way. The Harpers fell on the river men with a cold purpose that Hance recognized too late. To the front and rear he discerned dull flashes of steel. Wiley dispatched his victim with practiced neatness, slitting his throat. Micajah struggled with the other. A cry of agony was ripped from the rafter's throat as Harper's long knife slipped between his ribs, was extracted, then buried with a thud in his chest.

  Wiley chortled as he wrung a gold ring from his victim's hand, slipping it triumphantly on his own finger. Then, working methodically, the Harpers weighted the bodies with iron pots from the crate and slid them into the river, creating an eddying swirl of bubbles that soon receded.

  Hance braced himself against a bale of beaver pelts. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow as a cold feeling writhed through him. He gulped the thick misty air and swallowed bile. Then he shifted his gaze to Wiley.

  "There wasn't supposed to be any killing."

  "C'mon, Adair, don't say you didn't know what was going to happen tonight. Beside, they were just a couple of no-account Injuns anyway. Probably killed the trappers they stole this load off of, just like Injuns killed my mama in Virginia and my pa up in the licks."

  "That doesn't make us any better," Hance said hotly.

  "Look, if you want out of this, just say so."

  "What's done is done," Micajah added. "Let's sell off this load and do some celebratin'."

  They received less than half the actual worth of the pelts, but the warehouseman from Louisville who paid them didn't ask questions. The three men made camp in the woods above the Falls of the Ohio. The Harpers sipped rough corn whiskey and cackled over their success.

  "First thing I'm gonna do," Wiley mused, fingering his new ring, "is get me a room and a woman at the Indian Queen in Louisville. Maybe buy a gun for my boy, Caleb. He's had a hankerin' for a man's weapon lately."

  "Me, too," Micajah agreed. "And I believe I'll invest some of my share in a good game of draw poker or brag."

  Hance joined them in their drinking, but not with the same celebratory air. He still felt sick, cheated, and angry. But rich. Exhaustion and the burn of cheap whiskey eventually dulled his mind to what had happened, and he dragged his bedroll to a cushion of needles protected by a thick, low canopy of pine boughs. He fell asleep with his share of the take tied in a pouch around his neck and a knife in his hand. He knew better than to trust the Harpers.

  The sky was still damp and dark when something awakened him. Hance opened his eyes and shifted in time to see three men step into the small camp.

  The sudden thumping of blood in his ears was strangely exhilarating. Hance took a perverse pleasure in the tingling sense of imminent danger.

  One of the men—tall, tight-lipped, and raven haired— presented himself to the Harpers, hooking his thumbs into his trousers and drumming his fingers casually on his knife sheath.

  "I'm Billy Wolf," he said. "Sheriff's deputy." His eyes snapped from Wiley to Micajah. In that instant, Hance realized that the deputy and his men hadn't seen him; the low pines had shielded him from more than the dripping weather.

  The Harpers were stupid, but shrewd. Neither of them blinked at the idea that a lawman had walked into their midst.

  Wiley grinned crookedly and held out the whiskey flask. "A nip to warm your bones, Billy?" he invited.

  Billy Wolf didn't take the flask. With a hand that streaked like lightning, he grabbed Wiley's wrist in a grip so tight that the flask dropped to the ground.

  "Mighty unique bit of jewelry you have there, stranger," Billy growled, eyeing the gold ring on Wiley's finger.

  Covering his surprise, Wiley chuckled. "Got it off a no-account Injun," he explained.

  Billy gave the arm a twist. Hance gritted his teeth at the sound of snapping bone. As Wiley howled with agony, the other two deputies seized Micajah.

  "Stranger," Billy hissed, "that 'no-account Injun' happened to be my brother. And I happen to know he was headed toward Louisville with a load of pelts." The words were gruff with furious condemnation.

  Both Harpers reacted in the only way they knew. As Wiley clawed and bit at the deputy's hand, Micajah twisted in the grip of the others. But the Harpers were clumsy fighters and weren't adept at fending off an attack they didn't know about beforehand. They were helpless against Billy Wolf and his tough, silent men.

  Hance didn't wait to watch the outcome of the struggle. As he edged away from the campsite, keeping to the shadows, his foot brushed against Wiley's knapsack, which contained the Harpers' share of the money. Hance hesitated for the slimmest fraction of a second. The Harpers would have no need of currency where they were going. Snatching the knapsack, he tucked it under his arm and lunged for freedom.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Luke emerged from the public library on the corner of the main square of Lexington, raking a hand through his hair in irritation. Mr. Quick still hadn't been able to acquire the book Luke wanted, a volume by Charles New-bold, which contained ideas on farming so modern that some considered them radical.

  Luke wasn't much for reading, but he pored over anything that dealt with farming and livestock. His obsession with improving the farm's yield was the only thing that even faintly resembled passion in his life. There was Hannah Redwine, of course, but what he had with her was too comfortable to be thought of in terms of passion.

  At times, Luke wondered at his own discontent. He had so much—a loving family that was working its way to modest prosperity in the finest country west of the mountains, a woman who wanted nothing from him beyond the pleasure he gave her… He'd no call to want more from his life.

  Preoccupied, he nearly collided with a small, gingham-clad woman who was walking through the square with her arm angled through a large wicker basket. A bonnet fell down her back, hanging by its ribbon.

  "Excuse me," Luke said impatiently. "I—" He broke off and stared at her, so amazed at the feeling of utter delight that rippled through him that he forgot to smile. Somewhere he found his voice again. "Hello, Mariah."

  She smiled shyly. "Hello, Luke Adair."

  Luke knew he was staring, but he couldn't help himself. Mariah had changed a great deal since he'd brought her to Lexington six months earlier. Her pink gingham dress, covered by a serviceable apron, was both practical and demure. She wore her straight ebony hair pulled back and tied with a bit of ribbon. Her only concession to Indian garb was a pair of moccasins peeping out from beneath her dress. The picture she made, standing there with that timid half smile and her eyes as wide and clear as the Kentucky sky, made Luke feel suddenly and strangely alive.

  "Well?" she said at last.

  "Sorry," he said, flashing her a grin. "I didn't mean to stare. I'm just surprised to see you, Mariah. You look nice, like, like—"

  "—Like a white woman?" she asked.

  He couldn't decide whether she was teasing or being sarcastic. "You look fine, Mar
iah. Just fine."

  She put her bonnet back in place. "Thank you."

  "How's the boy?"

  "Gideon? He's well. The girls at Miss Nellie's spoil him terribly."

  "So it's Gideon now, eh?"

  "I figured he'd best have a Christian name if we're to live among Christians."

  Luke laughed. "Among Christians? I'll bet the ladies of Walnut Hill Church would give you an argument on that point."

  "Nell Wingfield gave us a home," Mariah stated. "How many of those church ladies would have taken us in?"

  Not a one, Luke thought. And neither would I, he admitted, feeling the prickle of prejudice that never failed to sneak up on him when he thought of the Indians who'd intruded upon his life. The sudden guilt that accompanied his prejudice surprised him.

  "What about you?" he asked Mariah. "Are they treating you all right?"

  She shrugged. "Plenty of laundry and cleaning, running errands and such." She indicated her basket, which overflowed with ribbons and lace from Trotter's store.

  He gave her a sideways glance. "So the arrangement agrees with you?"

  "Would I have any choice if it didn't?" Suddenly, her good nature seemed to leave her, replaced by resentment. "Maybe you don't understand what my life was like before, Luke Adair. I was free! Free to spend a whole day picking wildflowers if I wanted to. Free to play with the children of the village, to sing songs and listen to the stories of the old ones."

  "And free to starve in the winter," he countered, "or die of disease."

  She thrust her chin up obstinately. "At least what I did was up to me."

  He shook his head. "Sorry to hear you're unhappy."

  "How else can I feel, living among the very people who murdered my family? The only thing that makes it tolerable is that my mother was once one of them. She always spoke well of them. And Gideon seems happy… He's already forgotten what his life was like before." She stared at Luke, wondering at the expression in his green eyes. And then she realized what she was seeing. She laughed harshly.

  "You're angry with me, aren't you?" she said. "Because I'm not grateful for this life you've given me, because I've robbed you of the feeling of having shown great humanity to a lowly Shawnee."

  Luke gripped her arm. "Mariah—" She met his eyes again, and he broke off. Some of what she said was true; it did bother him that she was less than content with her new life. He didn't want her gratitude, not in the way she said, but for some reason her happiness was important to him.

  "Maybe you're missing out," he suggested, "keeping too much to yourself. This is the first time I've seen you in town."

  Her eyes moved over the square and up the length of Main Street. "There's nothing here for me, Luke."

  He gestured at the building behind him. "What about that place?"

  She gave him a questioning look. "What is it?"

  He laughed a little. "The public library, ninny. Folks borrow books to read."

  "I'd say you're the ninny, Luke Adair," she returned hotly. "I'm Injun trash, remember? I can't read." She pushed past him and started to walk away.

  Luke grabbed her arm and brought her back around to face him. The anger he felt was only for himself, for his own insensitivity.

  "Let me go," Mariah said. She spoke softly, but her voice throbbed with outrage.

  "Not until you let me apologize. It was a stupid thing for me to say. I should have thought before—"

  Her eyes didn't soften the slightest bit. "Let me go," she said again. "Do you want all of Lexington to see you in the company of an Injun?"

  "I don't care," he said. "Besides, you're only half—"

  "Ah, I see." She gave a bitter laugh. "The fact that my mother was white makes me more acceptable to you. Well, it doesn't matter, Luke. I was raised a Shawnee, and that's what I am, straight through to my heathen soul. These skirts and this bonnet are the only things about me that have changed. Inside I'm a redskin, and always will be."

  "I don't hold that against you, Mariah."

  "Liar! I know how you feel about Indians."

  Her temper was infectious. He let her go so abruptly that she stumbled back, nearly losing her balance.

  "I know how I feel about unreasonable women," he snapped. "I can't abide them." With that, he turned and stalked away.

  Immediately, he was engulfed by a sense of guilt so overpowering that it was out of proportion with the insult he'd dealt her. Luke had never been given to fits of temper, but something about Mariah rankled, made him want to push her away and gather her protectively against him at the same time.

  He walked away with long, angry strides. Damn, but she was a difficult woman. Why did she have to look that way, fragile and hurt, her soft, quiet beauty an unexpected foil for the defiance she showed him? Luke tried to tell himself she was just an Indian squaw, a product of the same savage heritage that had spawned the braves who'd taken Rebecca. But it was no good. Try as he might, he couldn't relegate Mariah to that faceless race that was his enemy. She'd become too human to him.

  Mariah leaned against the building called the public library and watched him walk away, pushing his fingers through his hair in an angry gesture. He was so tall and broad, so at ease in his frankly masculine body. Luke had a face the girls at Miss Nellie's would call a real looker— rugged, unyielding features, an easy, self-assured manner about him, and a grin that made one weak in the knees.

  God, but he was an Indian-hating bastard. Yet he seemed to want something from her. Mariah's lips curved into a derisive smile. With cold certainty she knew the friendship he offered was conditional. So long as she denied the wild, restless Shawnee blood that pounded through her veins, so long as she dressed, talked, and acted like a white woman, Luke Adair would give her his respect. But he flattered himself if he thought he was worth it.

  She turned and looked at the chiseled stone plaque embedded in the side of the building. Placing a finger in one of the grooves, she traced the letters. Her mother had known how to read, had shown Mariah that the strange little symbols formed words. Amy Parker had told her daughter that children not much older than Gideon learned to get meaning from those small symbols.

  With sudden purpose, and without pausing to wonder at what compelled her, Mariah entered the library. It was quiet within and smelled faintly musky and sweetish. Forcing away a sudden tingle of nervousness, Mariah approached a table where an elderly man sat reading, holding a thick calf-bound book close to his face.

  "Excuse me…" she interrupted hesitantly.

  He looked up, showing her a wizened face and a soft, almost childlike smile.

  "Yes, miss?" His voice whistled slightly through ill-made false teeth.

  "How do I go about taking a book home?"

  The lines about his face deepened as his smile grew broader. The man was delighted by her interest. Mariah soon learned that Abraham Quick's main calling in life was to share the books he loved with others. Leaning on a well-rubbed hickory cane, he showed her books on every possible subject, from animal husbandry to theology.

  Mariah couldn't suppress a smile. Mr. Quick behaved as if he were giving her a tour of the wonders of the world. Finally, he asked her what she was looking for.

  She studied the floor. "I—I'm not sure what I'm interested in, Mr. Quick. You see, I don't know how to read." She braced herself for some derisive comment.

  But it never came. Abraham Quick hurried to a low shelf of blue-bound volumes, slim, with words embossed on the front. "Never too late to learn," he said happily. "This should get you started. It's The Royal Alphabet, a new edition from Boston."

  Mariah took the book and flipped through the pages. She liked the feel of it in her hands, the small line drawings and the smell of the print. She gave Mr. Quick a dubious look.

  "I hardly know where to begin."

  He chuckled merrily. "The beginning's always a good place." Taking her elbow, he drew her over to a table and motioned for her to sit down. "I doubt you'll fancy these dull, preachy tales, but you'l
l soon go on to more interesting reading."

  But Mariah was fascinated from the start by the fact that each symbol on the page stood for a sound, that the sounds blended into words she understood. By the end of the afternoon she was identifying letters and could recite short poems from the book.

  " 'C was a cherry tree, pleasing to view,' " she said when Mr. Quick pointed to a letter. " 'D was a drummer, and beat a tattoo. E was an eagle, and soared to the sky, F a fine lady, with head near as high.'"

  Mariah giggled at the depiction of the hair style of outrageous proportions.

  "Can I take this home?" she asked.

  He drew his face into a stern expression. "On one condition, Miss Parker."

  Mariah braced herself. Mr. Quick seemed friendly, but like most whites he probably thought of her as a thieving Indian.

  But then he smiled again. "I'll only let you take it if you promise to come back for another lesson next week."

  Abraham Quick asked nothing in return for his tutelage, nothing but the gratification he reaped in watching her rapid progress through the weeks of the summer and autumn of 1806.

  Mariah never allowed herself to wonder why it had suddenly become so important for her to learn to read. As she progressed, the reason ceased to matter. Finally, she'd found something she liked about the white man's world, something that gave her life meaning and purpose.

  "Why, Sarah Adair, I never thought you were one to tell whoppers."

  Sarah pouted prettily. "It's the truth, as you'll soon see, Lucy. That 'divine gentleman,' as you call him, most certainly is my brother; he just never stays in Lexington for long. His name is Hance."

  Ivy Attwater, who had been listening idly to her younger sister's chatter, followed Sarah's gesture. Her gaze slid to the doorway of the Caddicks' ballroom.

  Hance Adair looked magnificent in snug butternut trousers and a fashionably cut frock coat, with lace at his throat and wrists. His hair was cropped shorter than fashion dictated, crowning his startlingly handsome face like a golden wreath.