Defiant Love Read online

  Defiant Love

  The Triumphant Hearts Series

  Book One

  by

  Judith E. French

  Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-893-4

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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.

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  Copyright © 1987; 2016 by Judith E French. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover by Kim Killion www.thekilliongroupinc.com

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Meet the Author

  Dedication

  For my loving grandparents, who opened the window to the past and told such magic tales; and for my children and grandchildren, who listen and remember what was and what may be again.

  Chapter 1

  Ohio River Country, 1703

  A few pale stars hung suspended in the eastern sky as the girl crept silently from the wigwam and passed through the sleeping camp. She murmured softly to a tethered pony and received a gentle nicker in reply. She paused for a moment to stroke the animal's sleek, arched neck before moving on. Rustling sounds filled her ears, the stirrings of people not yet ready to greet the day. She smiled as the whimpers of a newborn came from her brother's lodge, then a sudden silence as, no doubt, the babe was soothed by a drowsy mother's full breast.

  Already streaks of rose were beginning to illuminate the horizon. The girl quickened her steps. This was a special time of day, one she cherished, a time to be one with the inner voices of her heart and to communicate with all the living beings of the earth.

  Star Blanket knelt on the bank of the creek and cupped her hands to drink of the cool, fresh water. The stones under her feet still held the night's chill, and she shivered, her brief deerskin skirt and sleeveless vest providing little warmth. Summer seemed late in coming this year. It was June, yet the wild strawberries were slow to ripen.

  Swiftly, Star Blanket slipped out of her clothing and kicked aside her moccasins. She unbound her single, heavy braid, letting the dark hair fall in waves about her tanned shoulders. Then, with a running leap, she dove into the deep pool beneath the overhanging trees. She gasped at the shock of the cold water, unable to contain a small cry of surprise. Determinedly, she took handfuls of sand from the creek bottom and scrubbed her body until it tingled; then, having waded to the bank, she reached for a birch-bark container, intending to wash her hair with the herbs inside.

  She paused, suddenly struck by the silence. She should be hearing bird calls, but instead not even a leaf or tree branch moved. A trickle of apprehension sobered her mood, and she climbed out of the water and dressed quickly.

  Where was the village sentry? Cupping her hands, the young woman emitted the shrill, unique pitty-pit-pit of a nighthawk. She listened. There was no answer. She called a second time, and abruptly the silence of the morning was broken by the roar of a musket.

  Before her eyes, the Indian camp dissolved into a nightmare filled with smoke and screams and blood. Dozens of bearded men charged out of the forest, their long guns spitting fire and death. The Shawnee scrambled from their wigwams, most with empty hands, to face cold steel and shot.

  The children! Wrenched from her shock by a child's wail of terror, Star Blanket ran toward the village. A woman in front of her fell, pierced by a musket ball. Star Blanket leaped over the body and dashed toward her mother's wigwam. She saw her brother, naked, with only a skinning knife as a weapon, launch himself at a giant white man as his wife ran in the opposite direction, the baby in her arms.

  "Star Blanket!" The woman's face twisted in pain as she thrust the screaming infant into her arms, then dropped to her knees. An English trade hatchet quivered in her back. "Take the baby," she cried. "Run!"

  A musket backfired not a dozen paces away, the explosion shattering the face and chest of the white man who pulled the trigger. Blood spattered Star Blanket's cheek.

  "Go!" her sister-in-law screamed.

  A rough hand closed on her shoulder, spinning her around. For a heartbeat, she stared into the face of death. A bloody knife slashed down toward her throat. Instinctively she ducked, brought a knee up into the man's groin, and dodged away, running for her life. A musket ball passed so closely by her head that she heard the whine of its trajectory.

  Clutching the child to her breast, she ran like a startled doe, splashing through the shallow creek and plunging into the thickest part of the forest. Branches raked her face and bare breasts, ripping at her unbound hair. Gasping for breath, her heart pounding, she dropped to the ground beneath the shelter of an overhanging pine bough. "Shhh," she warned, pinching the baby's nose between her fingers to stop his crying. The sound of shots coming from behind her and boots crashing through the trees told her she was not far enough away for safety. Star Blanket breathed deeply, trying to control her trembling, trying to erase the smell of blood from her nostrils.

  The baby stared up at her from slanted black eyes. I have to think of him, she told herself. The dead are beyond help. A whimper caught her attention, and she pushed aside the boughs. There, only a few feet away, crouched a boy—Amatha. He was no more than eleven summers, and his eyes were glazed with fear. Blood trickled from his hair.

  Star Blanket motioned him to silence. "You must be a warrior," she whispered. "Take the little one. He is my brother's child. Guard him with your life and carry him safely to Stone Bull's village. Do you understand?"

  The child nodded, holding out bloodstained hands to take the infant.

  "Inu-msi-ila-fe-wanu will protect you if you do not lose courage. Fail me and I shall send demons to haunt you." She lay the baby in his arms. "His mother's sister lives there. She will care for him like her own." For an instant Star Blanket laid her hand against the boy's cheek. "Remember, you are Shawnee," she murmured. "Make no sound, no matter what you see or hear. And if you abandon the child, I will come back
from my grave to seek revenge!"

  Before she could lose her nerve, Star Blanket crept out from under the tree and inched her way through the brush. When she was a dozen yards from the hiding place, she leaped to her feet and began to run.

  To her right she heard a shout and the snap of branches. She caught a glimpse of a white face.

  "There goes one!" A musket cracked, and a piece of bark flew from a tree trunk overhead.

  Star Blanket let out an ear-shattering scream. Her dark hair spread cut behind her like a silken wave as she sped down the faint deer trail. Like a pack of wolves the white men pursued her, howling in bloodlust, eager for the kill.

  Their cries are no more than the wind, her soul whispered. She let the fear fall behind her as her moccasined feet flew across the hard-packed ground. The running became a glory, without beginning and without end.

  Since childhood Star Blanket had prided herself on her ability to run swiftly and surely. The Shawnee honored those who showed great skill and stamina, and in races she had taken many prizes, including the tiny golden bells that hung in her ears. She had run against the young men as well as the women, but never had the potential prize been so great as now.

  An Iroquois war party could run from the Great Lakes to the land of smoking mountains in five days' time... run without stopping to eat or sleep and yet fight when they arrived. If an Iroquois could do it, why not a Shawnee?

  The pain in her side became an agony. She told herself that to feel pain one had to be alive, so pain was good. She concentrated on running, on placing each foot precisely where she wanted it; a slip now would bring about her death.

  Ahead, the trees thinned, and the game trail led into a grassy meadow. The ground grew soft beneath her feet; her pace slowed despite her sudden burst of energy. She broke through the last of the hardwood trees searching frantically for cover. Sucking in great gulps of air, she dropped to her knees.

  The whinny of a horse made her stagger to her feet. A memory teased her. Beyond the meadow—what lay beyond? Was there a sharp drop into a river? Ignoring the cramps in her legs, she forced her body to move faster.

  She had crossed half the open space when two horsemen burst from among the trees. She turned to meet them, a Shawnee death chant on her lips, knowing she couldn't outrun the horses. She had lost the gamble. She would pay the price without tears.

  With howls of delight, the militiamen lashed their mounts toward her, each eager to be the first. A red-bearded man pulled his tomahawk from his belt and swung it high.

  Star Blanket stood frozen until she could feel the breath of the brown horse in her face, then she dodged swiftly aside. The blade went wide. With a curse, the man yanked hard on the reins, pulling the horse almost to his knees in the soft earth.

  The second man dove out of his saddle and lunged for her. A hand closed around her ankle, pulling her to the ground. In a heartbeat, she twisted free, scrambling up and darting behind the horse. The white man cursed and circled the animal. Star Blanket scooted under the horse's belly, seizing the mane and throwing one leg over his back.

  The horse, terrified by the strange-smelling creature clinging to his back, reared up, raking the sky with his forelegs. One hoof struck the man, instantly crushing the fragile bone above his right eye. The man fell like an empty sack, his life's blood draining out on the green grass.

  Star Blanket struggled for control of the animal, leaning forward on the tossing neck and reaching for the elusive leather rein. The act saved her life as the red-beard's laughter turned to cries of rage. His musket ball grazed the back of her neck, like the sting of an angry wasp.

  Then the hard butt of his musket slammed into her shoulder, knocking her from the horse and tossing her, breathless, onto the trampled grass.

  With a whoop of triumph, the man threw himself down beside her, grabbed a handful of her dark hair, and yanked her head back. Instantly, the steel blade of his tomahawk plunged toward her head. The last thing Star Blanket saw was his horrible bearded face and a ribbon of blue sky framing his raccoon cap. Then there was only blackness....

  In her dreams the blackness would grow deeper and then recede. Sometimes pain invaded her nothingness, but usually there was only the blackness: it was so much easier to float, carried by the tide of a dream river, safe from fear and sorrow, free from all the cares of life.

  Yet something within her breast would not be stilled. A flicker of resistance ate at her passivity. The resistance hardened and strengthened until it would not be denied. The girl forced herself up from unconsciousness through clouds of pain and fear. Gradually her brain acknowledged signals... sounds and smells. A hint of light passed through the barrier of her thick, dark lashes.

  Cunning bade her wait; she did not yield to the urge to open her eyes. Instead, she lay unmoving, listening, trying to identify the sounds around her.

  The breathing of animals... horses. A sensation of movement. The creak of leather. Men's voices. The tongue... not French, English. English-manake. She was a prisoner of those who had brought death to her village!

  Memories spilled over; all her control could not stop a tear from running down her cheek. So many dead... so many. Fire and shot and death brought by cold steel. Why had she not died with them? Wishemenetoo! Why? Why have you punished me by letting me live when all I love have crossed over?

  The pain in her heart gave way to the pain in her flesh. Star Blanket's head pounded; every bone in her body ached. Her chest and belly hurt with every step of the horse across which she had been flung. Her arms... she could barely feel them; her fingers were numb. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she lay over the horse so that her face slapped against his belly as he walked.

  Her despair passed with the fading of the day. At dusk, the English-manake reined in their horses and prepared to make camp for the night. Star Blanket waited, her eyes closed, her breathing faint and steady. She lived! When she learned why they hadn't killed her in the meadow, she would plan her escape. Wishemenetoo, the Great Spirit, would give her the cunning and courage needed to make the best of every opportunity. She began imperceptively twisting her wrists to free herself.

  Rough hands pulled her from the horse and tossed her to the ground. Her head slammed against something hard. To her shame, a soft moan escaped her lips. She lay limp and unmoving.

  "See! I told you," a voice said overhead. "I told ye she were alive."

  The accents were strange, but Star Blanket knew the words. Her father had spoken English with her so that she would not forget. And once she had been the voice for her mother in trading with a Frenchman from the north country. His English had been funny too, but she had always had an ear for the tongues of other people.

  Then another, deeper voice said, "Should of kilt her with the rest!"

  "She be white, James. You can see by the skin. Them's no Injun features."

  "Born white, maybe. But livin' with them like that, who knows how long, she's tarred with the same brush. She ain't fit to live with decent white folks. Them squaws is dirty! Like rabbits, all of them. Legs like she's got, she's warmed some buck's blanket. Live with them, die with them, I say!"

  "After all them bucks, maybe she'd be grateful for a white man. What do you say, Harlan? I know your old woman ain't got tits like these!"

  Coarse laughter filled her ears, and Star Blanket bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted the salt of her own blood. She would die before she lay beneath their stinking bodies! They called her people dirty. Phahh! These white dogs carried a stink like carrion on their unwashed flesh.

  A hand gripped her ankle. "Come on, sweet thing. Open your eyes. Harlan's got something for you."

  Star Blanket came alive in a churning tempest of fury. The bonds on her wrists that she had worked loose flew off, and she launched herself at her tormentor with a cry of pure rage.

  The unexpected attack caught the bearded white man off guard, and he fell over backward with the girl on top of him. She struck his chin with her head an
d her nails reached for his eyes. A knee caught him in the groin even as his friends attempted to rescue him from her savage assault.

  Hands grabbed at her as she cursed the man with every profanity she had ever heard in English or French. The words were interspersed with Shawnee, Fox, and Chippewa invocations, which, although not true curses, left no doubt of her feelings.

  The man staggered to his feet, blood streaming from a dozen scratches on his face, and came toward her, his fists raised. Star Blanket struggled to break loose from the two white men who held her.

  Suddenly a pistol shot sounded behind them. The laughter and yelling ceased abruptly as a big man shouldered his way through the crowd. "I waste no more pistol balls," he threatened, glaring at the men. "What goes here?" He held a flintlock pistol in each hand, one still smoking. "Well?" he demanded. His broad forehead was lined, his once yellow hair faded to near gray, yet there was no doubt of his authority; his tone and bearing told Star Blanket that this man was a war chief.

  "Him!" She motioned her chin toward the bearded one. "He..." Her mind scrambled for the unfamiliar words.

  The ice blue eyes turned on the man. "You know my orders." He raised the pistol until the barrel was level with the bearded man's forehead. "You challenging me, James Walker? We are Christian men, doin' God's work." His voice rose as he warmed to his message. "We have come into this wilderness to teach the red man a lesson, not to lie with his women! Not to sink to the level of beasts! And not to take advantage of this poor, unfortunate white girl. Have you no shame? Cover her nakedness!"

  Flushing crimson, a man skinned off his smock and threw it toward her. "She kin have thet, Colonel. James didn't mean no harm. We was jest funnin'."