Buy a copy today:

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

Print:    amazon    I    B&N

Excerpt

Taken from Chapter Nine:

Chapter Nine

The faintest edge of dawn crept over the hills, turning the world to ash and silver. A chill hung in the air, heavy with the smell of damp straw and cold earth.

Luella stirred, her body stiff, her mind slow to wake. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was — only that she was warm, pressed close to Marcus, the sound of his breathing soft against her ear. Then the memory of flight, of blood, of darkness returned all at once.

She sat up quickly, her heart pounding.

The barn was washed in half-light, shadows stretching long and blue across the floor. The horse stood silent, its breath ghosting in the frigid air. Everything was still — too still.

And then she felt it — that prickle at the back of the neck, that instinct older than thought.

Someone was there.

Her eyes swept the dark corners, searching. At first she saw nothing, only the vague outlines of tools and broken beams. Then, in the far corner where the light did not reach, something moved — the faint shift of a figure seated in silence.

Her breath caught.

She almost screamed, but the sound died in her throat. The figure rose slowly, gracefully, without a word. He stepped into the pale wash of morning light.

He was young — no more than twenty perhaps — his dark hair bound with a leather tie, his face calm, unreadable. His clothing was worn and travel-stained, a mix of deerskin and rough homespun. Across his chest hung a small pouch, and at his belt, a knife sheathed in bone.

He moved with quiet purpose, each step soundless in the straw. Luella froze, torn between fear and the strange, quiet dignity of him.

When he reached them, he did not look at her first. He knelt beside Marcus, his expression shifting to one of concern. His hand hovered over the wound but did not touch.

After a moment, he spoke — his voice low, careful, his accent thick but his English clear.

“He is hurt,” he said simply.

Luella’s lips parted, but no sound came.

The young man looked up at her, his dark eyes steady. “You ran far. But not far enough.”

Her fear flared again. “Who are you?” she managed.

He considered the question for a long moment before answering. “My name is Tayané,” he said. “I saw the man who hunts you. He rides with two others.”

Bradley.

The name rose in her mind like a ghost.

Tayané glanced toward the open door, where the first beam of sunlight broke through the mist. “They will find this place by midday.” He turned back to Marcus, his hand now pressed lightly near the wound. “He will not ride if the bleeding comes again.”

Luella knelt opposite him, her voice trembling. “Can you help him?”

The young man’s gaze met hers, unreadable. “If you trust me.”

“I have no one else to trust,” she said.

He studied her for a long heartbeat, then nodded. “Then do as I say.”

He reached into the pouch at his side and drew out a small bundle wrapped in doeskin — roots, leaves, and strips of bark bound with twine. He worked silently, his movements quick and sure, crushing the herbs with a stone, mixing them with water from her flask.

Luella watched every motion, the fear slowly ebbing from her chest, replaced by fragile hope.

Tayané spread the poultice over Marcus’s wound and spoke softly in his own tongue — a prayer, or a plea. When he finished, he looked at her again.

“He will sleep,” he said. “If the sun finds you here, you must move north. There is a trail through the hollow where the riders cannot follow easily.”

Luella swallowed hard, nodding. “Why are you helping us?”

He hesitated, glancing toward the door. “The spirits led me to this place,” he said quietly. “Although I don’t know why. Perhaps ― we fight the same evil.”

Something in his tone — steady, but cold — made her blood run cold.

Tayané rose, tightening the strap of his pouch. “You have little time. When he wakes, take the river path. Follow the sound of the falls.”

Luella wanted to thank him, to say something more, but he was already moving toward the door.

As he stepped into the pale dawn, she called softly, “Tayané… will we see you again?”

He paused, his profile lit briefly by the rising sun. “If you live,” he said, “perhaps. I will try to lead them away… if I can.”

Then he was gone — swallowed by the mist.

Luella turned back to Marcus, who now slept quietly, his breath steadier than before. She touched his hand gently, her heart torn between relief and fear.

Outside, the first true light of morning spread across the hills. For the first time, Luella dared to believe that salvation might wear the face of a stranger.

By midday, the light slanted white through the cracks in the barn walls. The air was warmer now, thick with the scent of dried straw and dust. Flies buzzed lazily in the corners.

Marcus had not woken. His breathing was ragged again, his skin damp with fever. The poultice Tayané had made the night before was nearly dry, and though Luella had tried to rewet it, the wound had begun to darken at the edges.

She sat beside him, wiping his brow, whispering words meant more to calm herself than him.

When the door creaked, she started violently.

Tayané stood framed in the doorway, the light behind him bright enough to cast his face in shadow. He stepped inside without a sound, his eyes moving first to Marcus, then to her.

“He is no better,” he said simply.

Luella shook her head, her voice raw from lack of sleep. “No. He hasn’t stirred since dawn.”

Tayané crossed the barn and knelt beside Marcus again, laying a hand gently against his neck. “The fever climbs. He will not leave this place ― but you must.”

“Then we’ll wait,” she said quickly. “I will not go without him.”

He cut her off, his tone stern now. “You cannot wait. The riders are close. By nightfall, they will be here.”

She rose to her feet, trembling. “Then go. Leave me. I’m not abandoning him.”

Tayané stood as well, his height suddenly imposing in the small, dim space. “If you stay, you will die — both of you.”

“I don’t care.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained even. “You speak as one who has not yet seen death.”

Luella’s fear flared into anger. “I’ve seen enough to know what it costs to live without honor!”

For a long moment, they stood in silence — her breathing fast and uneven, his calm, unreadable. Then, without a word, he moved.

His hand shot forward, seizing her wrist. She gasped and tried to pull away, striking at him with her free hand, but he caught that too, his grip unyielding.

“Let me go!” she cried, her voice cracking.

Tayané didn’t answer. His expression had hardened into something like sorrow — the face of a man who had made a choice he did not want to make.

With a quick motion, he drew a length of cord from his belt and looped it around her wrist. She struggled again, twisting and fighting, but he was stronger. In a few heartbeats, the knot was secure.

“Tayané!” she pleaded, breathless. “Please — you don’t understand!”

“I understand,” he said quietly. “But the dead cannot love, and the brave cannot help those who will not run.”

He led her toward the open door. She dug her heels into the ground, tears streaking her face. “No! Marcus—please!”

He turned briefly, his gaze flicking toward the still figure on the hay. “He will rest. I will return if I can.”

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, her voice trembling with fury and despair.

Tayané paused, tightening his grip as he guided her outside. The sun caught the edge of his cheekbone, the glint of his dark eyes.

“Away,” he said simply.

He lifted her easily onto one of the horses — Marcus’s — and tied her hands to the saddle. Taking the reins, he held them as he mounted his horse. The animals shifted restlessly, their breath rising in soft plumes.

Luella twisted against the rope, breathless. “You can’t do this—”

“I can,” he said. “And I will. He bought you time. Do not waste it.”

Then, without another word, he mounted and urged the horses forward, away from the barn and down the narrow trail that cut through the hollow.

The sunlight flashed through the trees as they rode, each hoofbeat carrying Luella farther from the one she had sworn not to leave.

And as the barn disappeared behind the curve of the hill, the sound of the horses’ hooves faded into the wind — leaving only silence where Marcus lay, the faint rasp of his breathing the last proof that he still lived.

The sun had dropped low by the time Bradley reached the hollow. The light came slanting through the trees, gold and red, turning the wet leaves into mirrors. The air smelled of horses and old smoke — the trace of a fire long since gone cold.

He dismounted at the edge of the clearing, boots sinking into the soft earth. David Carter followed behind him, his face drawn and grim, saying nothing. Two of Bradley’s men spread out through the brush, rifles ready.

“There,” one of them called. “Tracks. Two horses, one brought two people here. The other… I don’t know ― unshod.”

Bradley strode forward, his eyes scanning the ground. The prints led straight to the half-collapsed barn at the center of the clearing. The door hung open, swaying faintly in the wind.

He stepped inside.

The air was still and stifling, thick with the scent of damp straw and blood gone stale. Dust motes drifted in the shafts of dying light.

On the far side of the barn lay Marcus, half-covered with a torn cloak, his face turned toward the light. His skin had gone pale and waxen; the fever had done what the bullet began.

For a long moment, Bradley said nothing. He simply looked down at the boy — the man who had dared to take what he claimed.

David entered quietly behind him. His breath caught as his eyes fell upon the still form. “Oh, Lord…” he whispered.

Bradley crouched beside the body. The bandage was dark, the herbs beneath it dried and stiff. The care in the dressing was clear — someone had tried to save him.

Luella.

He reached out and drew back the edge of the cloak. A faint mark showed at Marcus’s wrist — the indentation of a rope, recently tied and removed.

“She was here,” he murmured.

David’s voice was tight. “And she’s gone now. Let her be, Bradley. Haven’t you done enough?”

Bradley stood, slow and deliberate. His expression was unreadable, though a faint tremor ran through his hand as he brushed the dust from his coat. “Enough?” he repeated softly.

He walked to the door and looked out toward the trail, where the hoofprints led north. “No, Carter,” he said finally. “Not nearly.”

One of the men approached from the trees, holding something in his hand — a strip of leather cord. “Found this caught on a branch by the trail,” he said.

Bradley took it. The leather was worn smooth, but the workmanship was distinct — hand-cut, bound with sinew. Native.

He turned it over in his palm, thoughtful. “Not hers,” he said quietly. “Someone’s helping her.”

David frowned. “A traveler, maybe. Or someone from the settlement—”

Bradley shook his head. “No. This isn’t white work. Cherokee, most likely.”

He looked back toward the body, his voice hardening. “That boy didn’t die alone.”

David stepped forward, his tone sharp. “If she’s found someone willing to keep her safe, maybe that’s Providence giving her another chance. You’d do well to leave it be.”

Bradley’s jaw tightened. “Providence,” he said, the word curdled with bitterness. “Providence doesn’t take what’s mine.”

He turned to his men. “Bury him. There, under the tree line.”

Then, as the shovels began to bite into the earth, Bradley mounted his horse and looked north, toward the hills. The wind had risen, carrying the scent of pine and rain, and somewhere beyond the ridge a hawk cried out.

He watched the horizon for a long moment, then murmured under his breath:

“She’s still running. Let her run then ― like a wild animal, let her run ― and get the run out of her.”

He touched his heels to the horse’s flank, and they moved out of the hollow, leaving behind only the fresh-turned earth and the whisper of the forest reclaiming its dead.