‌Sequel to A Captive's Heart

Adohi finds new life among the Cherokee—and in the steadfast heart of Tayané, the warrior who once saved her.

But freedom is never without cost. As enemies close in from the valley below and the threat of war rises, Adohi must choose between safety and love, between the world she fled and the one she was meant to claim.

A sweeping story of passion, courage, 

and the indomitable power of the heart.

Buy a copy today:

ebook:    amazon  I   B&N  I  apple  I  kobo  I smashwords  I curios $1.99

Print:       amazon  I   B&N

Excerpt

Taken from Chapter One:

Chapter One

The deer was young—no more than a yearling—but it was the first she had seen all morning, and it would have to suffice. Notching an arrow, she pulled and loosed it. The arrow struck with a satisfying thud. Even with a clean shot, the animal bounded toward the far side of the valley before falling. Adohi watched it disappear into the undergrowth, marking the distance and the place where it had gone down.

She rose, gathering her bow and the two spare arrows she had brought, and began her descent. The ground was soft beneath her boots, heavy with the damp scent of pine and leaf mold. When she reached the animal, it lay still, breath and life already gone. The arrow had found its place just behind the left shoulder. She knelt beside it, pulled her knife from the sheath at her waist, and made the first cut below its neck. Warm blood welled up, dark and bright all at once, coursing over her fingers.

Adohi lifted her eyes to the fading sky. “Thank you,” she murmured in her own tongue, voice low but steady. For the life taken. For the life given. Dipping her fingers into the stream of blood, she drew a crimson line across her face before setting to her work.

The light was failing fast. Shadows gathered in the hollows of the valley, turning the air cool and blue. She worked quickly and cleanly, her hands sure from long practice. She did not wish to be caught alone on the mountain after dark. When the task was done, she lifted the small deer across her shoulders and began the long climb back toward where she had left her horse.

By the time she reached it, the last of the sun had slipped beyond the ridge. The world was a deepening wash of indigo, the peaks still holding the faintest ember of light. She draped the deer over the horse’s back, wiped her hands on the earth, and swung herself into the saddle. The animal shifted beneath her, snorting softly, eager to be moving again.

The trail wound narrow and high along the spine of the ridge, a dark thread through the trees. Below, mist rose from the valley floor, curling through the pines like smoke. The mountains whispered around her—the cry of a night bird, the rustle of wind through the branches. In the far distance, a flicker of orange broke through the dark: the fires of the Cherokee camp. Her heart lifted at the sight.

The path descended steeply into the next valley. By the time she reached the edge of the clearing, night had fully fallen. Shadows merged with firelight, the air rich with woodsmoke and the smell of cooking meat. A group of children spotted her first and came running, their laughter bright as birdsong. They circled her horse, calling out, eager to see what she had brought.

From the largest of the fires, an elder rose—Qaletaqa, her gray braid gleaming in the light. She approached with the slow, deliberate grace of age, her gaze sharp and measuring. When her eyes fell upon the deer, she gave a small nod.

“U-ne-gv u-we-tsi-a-ge-yv, White daughter,” she said in Cherokee, her tone neither harsh nor kind, simply true. “It is small.”

Adohi smiled faintly, her voice soft but certain. “It is enough.”

She slid down from her horse and lifted the deer once more, bearing its weight across her shoulders as she carried it toward the main fire. There, seated with his walking stick before him, was Tayané, still healing from his wounds. He looked up at her, the firelight catching in his dark eyes—eyes that held both relief and reproach.

“You should not have gone alone,” he said, his voice roughened by concern more than anger.

Adohi set the deer beside him, straightened, and met his gaze. “And yet,” she said, quietly but firmly, “we will eat.”

For a long moment he said nothing. Then, with a weary sigh, he shook his head. The corner of his mouth lifted, the faintest hint of a smile.

The fire crackled between them, throwing sparks into the night. Around them, the village hummed softly with the sounds of evening—the murmur of women’s voices, the laughter of children, the slow rhythm of drums from somewhere deep in the trees. Adohi felt the day’s weariness settle into her bones, but beneath it, a quiet pride stirred.

Almost six months had passed since Tayané found her. At first, she had thought herself his captive—lost, frightened, certain she would be traded or worse. But she had soon come to understand that he had been her salvation. He had carried her from the ruins of what she’d known, through hunger, loss, and fear, until she was strong enough to walk on her own.

In those months, she had learned more than she ever had in all her years before. How to move through the forest without sound. How to read the tilt of the wind, the track of a deer in the mud, the slow turning of the seasons through leaf and light. Under his patient guidance, she had learned to hunt with a bow, to dry meat, to make snares from sinew and traps from stone.

His people’s language—at first a barrier high as any mountain—was coming easier now. She still stumbled, still grasped for words, but meaning passed between them more readily than before, carried by gesture, by glance, by the shared rhythm of their days. For the most part the tribe had come to accept her. There still were some who eyed her with wary curiosity. She did not blame them. A white woman among them was a strange thing, even in these unsettled times.

Yet she no longer felt like a ghost drifting between worlds. The life she had left behind was fading—like a dream recalled only in fragments: the scent of soap, the feel of linen sheets, the distant sound of a church bell. Out here, the mountains were her walls, the rivers her roads, the sky her roof.

Tayané still carried the scar from the fight that had brought them together. When she looked at him now, sitting in the glow of the fire, she could see how much he had given up to keep her safe. He never spoke of it, never sought her gratitude, but she felt it in the quiet moments—the way his gaze lingered on her when he thought she wasn’t looking, the small care in his words when he corrected her, the gentleness in his hands despite their strength.

Adohi turned her face toward the fire, its warmth painting her skin in shifting gold. The night around them pulsed with the steady hum of life—the crackle of the flames, the murmur of distant voices, the whisper of wind through pine.

The fire had burned low, the wood crackling softly as the night deepened around them. Beyond the ring of light, the forest stretched vast and dark, alive with unseen movement—the whisper of leaves, the cry of an owl, the low murmur of wind through pine.

Adohi knelt beside the flames, turning a strip of venison on the flat stone she had placed at the edge of the coals, the scent of roasted meat mingled with smoke, rising into the still air. When it was ready, she tore a piece free and offered it to Tayané.

He hesitated, his dark eyes reflecting the flicker of firelight. “You would give this to me?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “You should eat. You need your strength.”

A faint smile touched his mouth, though his gaze did not leave hers. “Among my people,” he said, “when a woman offers food from her own hunt, it is a sign. It means she accepts marriage.”

Adohi stilled, the warmth of the fire suddenly sharp against her skin. “Among mine,” she said, after a pause, “it is the man who must ask first.”

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then Tayané’s smile deepened, not mocking, but soft with understanding. He inclined his head. “It is the same with us,” he said quietly. “The man must ask. But to ask, he must bring a deer to the woman’s parents as a gift of honor. Only then may he speak his heart.”

Adohi’s gaze drifted toward the darkness beyond the fire, where the ridge rose sharp against the stars. “That cannot be done,” she said. Her voice was calm, but there was a shadow in it.

Tayané was silent. The firelight painted his face in gold and amber, the lines of strength and gentleness both there, both true.

Then Adohi turned back to him, her eyes steady. “Qaletaqa calls me daughter,” she said simply.

The meaning lingered between them like smoke, curling and weightless.

Tayané studied her face for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. “Then,” he said, his voice low, “perhaps I shall hunt a deer soon.”

The fire popped softly, sending up a thin spiral of sparks that vanished into the night. Around them, the camp had gone quiet; even the children’s laughter had faded into dreams.

Adohi looked into the flames, her heart full—part fear, part wonder, and a deep, unfamiliar peace. The mountains held their silence around them, ancient and knowing.

The fire burned low, settling into a bed of embers that glowed like fallen stars. Beyond the circle of light, the camp was hushed. The night stretched wide and endless over the valley, stitched with the faint shimmer of constellations she did not yet know the names of.

Adohi drew her blanket around her shoulders and sat watching the flames breathe and fade. Across the fire, Tayané had leaned back against a log, his head tilted toward the sky, eyes half-closed. The faint trace of a smile still lingered on his lips, and she wondered if he was thinking of the same thing she was—the promise that had hung between them like smoke.

A soft wind stirred, carrying the scent of pine and earth, the lingering sweetness of roasted meat. The sounds of the camp settled deeper into silence: the crack of cooling wood, the rustle of someone shifting in their sleep, the slow murmur of the river beyond the trees.

Almost six months ago, she had thought herself lost. She remembered the terror of that night—the shouting, the gunshots, the pain, the blur of running until the world itself fell away. And then, his face above hers, calm and steady, a stranger’s mercy when she’d expected none.

Now, she could not imagine the world without his voice, his patience, the rhythm of his footsteps beside hers on the trail.

She looked up toward the ridge where the trees stood like sentinels against the sky. The mountains had changed her—stripped her down to something simpler, something honest. She no longer counted the days by the sun, or measured comfort in walls or windows. Her hands bore the marks of her work; her heart carried its own quiet strength.

The fire gave a final sigh, a small breath of sparks lifting into the dark. Adohi lay down beside it, wrapping her blanket close.

Sleep came slowly, but not uneasily. Her last thought was of Tayané’s words—Perhaps I shall hunt a deer soon.

A faint smile touched her lips. Somewhere in the forest, an owl called once, and then all was still.

The mountains held them both, vast and timeless, their silence deep as faith.