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  He considered her words and then nodded again, seeming to agree with her.

  She turned back to the Squire and Mooner. “Since it is obvious that I do not need your protection, would you please leave now?”

  “Linnet, we can’t leave you in the care of some Indian.”

  “Then I suggest you ride back with us, since I am riding with Yellow Hand.”

  “Linnet, please,” the Squire said, “you can ride with me.”

  She looked at Mooner, who eyed Yellow Hand eagerly. “No, I have my escort.” Linnet was careful to keep her body between the young Indian and Mooner at all times. She rode behind the Shawnee on his horse, her arms tight around his waist, the big bag of rose hips carefully held against her body.

  The rain and the far distance of Yellow Hand’s head above her own made it difficult for her to talk to him. About a mile outside Spring Lick he kicked his horse to an opposite path and Linnet looked to see the Squire and Mooner work hard to keep up with them, but the young Indian was familiar with the trail and was more accustomed to the rain which blinded the two white men.

  Within minutes he led them to higher ground, where they looked down on the confused and lost men. Linnet put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at their bewilderment, their struggle to fight the rain. When she looked at Yellow Hand, she saw that the corners of his mouth twitched also, and what could have been a deadly encounter turned into a harmless bit of fun.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “LORD-A-MERCY, GIRL, WHAT YOU BEEN DOIN’ to cause so much commotion?” Phetna greeted a wet and shivering Linnet. “Squire’s been here givin’ orders, shoutin’ and cursin’ so much the young’un took to cryin’, and it took me a while to calm her down.” Phetna looked adoringly at Miranda, who sat on a stool by the fire, concentrating on getting food onto her spoon and into her mouth.

  “How is he?” Linnet went to Devon, leaving puddles of water behind her.

  “’Bout the same; leastways he ain’t causin’ the trouble you are. You gonna tell me what you done, somethin’ ’bout runnin’ off with an Injun and bringin’ a massacre down on Spring Lick?”

  “Posh! I truly cannot understand how these people get so upset over something so minor.”

  “Indians ain’t ‘minor,’ and if you’d lived here as long as me you’d know that.”

  “I am not unaware of the dangers of Indians; after all, my parents were killed by Indians. I saw my own mother—” She stopped. “I must put on some dry clothes first,” she said as she began to unfasten the front of her dress.

  “Yellow Hand is little more than a boy and he was calmly helping me collect the rose hips.”

  Linnet had her back to Devon, facing Phetna, and did not see him laboriously turn his head to face the women. Phetna wondered if it was the mention of Yellow Hand or Linnet’s declaration that she was going to remove her clothes that made him go to such efforts. She saw his open eyes for the first time and, with a strange tightening of her skin, she saw Slade Macalister, just as she remembered him, unchanged even after twenty years. It took a few seconds to remember he was Slade’s son.

  She watched him interestedly, but he had eyes only for Linnet, now down to a wet, clinging camisole and petticoats. Phetna’s eyes lit with amusement. Just like Slade, she thought. It would take more than a body burned raw, excruciating pain and his life hanging by a thread to keep him from watching a pretty girl undress.

  “Well, ain’t you gonna tell me?” Phetna persisted, trying not to show the laughter that bubbled inside her as she surreptitiously watched Devon.

  Linnet peeled the wet petticoats from her body and began rubbing herself briskly with the coarse linen towel. She wore the short camisole top and the underpants that came to just above her knees. “There was a young boy, a Shawnee, in your cabin. I’m sure he only went inside to get out of the rain. I think he was as frightened of me as I was of him.” She untied the strings of the camisole and pulled it over her head, then stepped out of the underpants.

  “Turn around and I’ll dry your back. You think Miranda’s gettin’ enough to eat?”

  Linnet turned, her nude body facing Devon, her head turned toward her daughter. She smiled at Miranda and the girl smiled back while Phetna rubbed Linnet’s back. When Linnet turned her head again to look toward Devon, he lay still, eyes closed, breath shallow and even. She took the towel from Phetna, walked across the room and began to dress in dry clothes.

  When Phetna looked again at Devon, he seemed to be sleeping, but she was sure she saw a hint of a smile on his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna kill a boy what still looks at women,” she muttered and breathed easier because she hadn’t liked the idea of one of Slade’s sons dying while under her care.

  Linnet knelt by Devon, touched his hair, ran her finger along his ear. “His color looks better, doesn’t it, Phetna? Or am I just imagining it?”

  Phetna’s face twisted into some semblance of a grin. “I think he’s gonna be just fine. In fact, I’m right sure of it.”

  “You are!” Linnet was exhilarated but just as quickly deflated again. “I’ll only believe it when I see for sure myself, when I know he’s Devon and not just a rag doll.”

  “Oh, he ain’t just a rag doll. I’m about as sure of that as anythin’ in my life.” Phetna stood. “Enough of this jawin’. We got us a lot of work to do now. You feelin’ strong, girl?”

  “I’m as strong as usual, I guess. What must we do?”

  “We gotta lift that boy up and get him to settin’ up, ’cause he’s gotta start drinkin’ some of my tea. And do you realize he ain’t had a relief a’ nature since he got burned?”

  In spite of herself, Linnet blushed, and Phetna enjoyed her red face greatly. “I told you carin’ for a burned man ain’t no sweet job. Now you get them pillows and put ’em on that bench like I showed you.”

  It took the two women a long, strenuous time to lift Devon and put him on the bench. They couldn’t touch his burns, and since his feet were hurt badly, he could give them little help, and they both could see the lines of strain in his face; and how the raw, fragile skin pulled and seemed as if it might break apart. They draped a mattress across the table, and Devon was able to lean forward, his ribs heaving after the exertion. There were tears in Linnet’s eyes as she felt his pain with him.

  It took her a few minutes and a silent lecture to get over her embarrassment at helping Devon relieve himself. Phetna didn’t help any and seemed to thoroughly enjoy Linnet’s confusion.

  When the tea was ready, Phetna added a bit of salt to the brew, explaining that all the water that left Devon was salty (Linnet refused to ask how she knew this) and needed to be replaced. Devon struggled to drink the tea, not wanting it, choking on it.

  “You got to make him drink,” Phetna said. “It’s the same with all of ’em. They just wanta die and can’t nothin’ convince ’em they ain’t goin’ to.”

  “But he won’t drink any more,” Linnet said in frustration. “How can I make him?”

  “I don’t know, people use all different ways—hold their noses, threaten ’em, cry, kiss ’em—you been doin’ a lot of that lately—anythin’ to make ’em drink. This is the easy part. You gotta make him start eatin’ pretty soon.”

  “How can I do anything when he can’t hear me? He’s been unconscious since the fire.”

  “Ha! He hears as good as you, and I ’spect a sight better’n me.”

  Linnet was astonished. “Then why doesn’t he say something?”

  “Pain, girl, burnin’, horrible pain! No need to talk when all you can do is feel your body on fire.”

  “Devon,” she said softly in his ear. “You have to drink the tea. We want you to get well. Miranda wants to meet you. She thinks you’re just some big stuffed doll, not real at all. When you get well you can carve the head of a doll for her, and I’ll make the body. Would you do that for your daughter?”

  Something Linnet said was right because Devon finally made an effort to drink.

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