Ice Princess

B Glad Judith

Description

Victim of brutal rape, Flower Jones longs for refuge in England, where she believes she will be safe. But she reckons without William King, an escaped slave, who wants her for his woman. Although he could live free in Cherry Vale, where no one will ever whip him again, William follows her as she travels to a seaport, risking capture as an escaped slave. The raw gold they carry excites the greed of outlaws, who force them to fight for their lives. Face to face with death, will Flower realize how precious life -and William-are to her?

Sujets

• Westerns
• Historical romance
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: Uncial Press
• Date de parution: 13 octobre 2006
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781601740106
• Langue: English

Extrait

ICE PRINCESS
Behind the Ranges, Book II
 
By
Judith B. Glad
 
Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and lookbehind the ranges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost andwaiting for you. Go.
Rudyard Kipling: The Explorer
 
 
Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon 2006
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and eventsdescribed herein are products of the author's imagination or areused fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Anyresemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons,living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Ice Princess Copyright © 2003, 2006 byJudith B. Glad
Previously published by Awe-Struck E-Books
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-010-6 ISBN 10;1-60174-010-7
Cover design by Judith B. Glad
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction orutilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by anyelectronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafterinvented, is forbidden without the written permission of the authoror publisher.
Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com
DEDICATION
Many folks have helped and cheered mealong the rocky, sometimes discouraging journey to publication.This book is dedicated to six women who critiqued my earlymanuscripts with honesty, courage, and love. Laurie, Phyllis, Karen,Barbara, RubyLee and Norma, I'd never have gotten here withoutyou.
Or without Neil....
 
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
In recent years a number of books and websites have shonenew light on the lives of Black slaves in eighteenth and nineteenthcentury America. While I can't claim to have consulted all of them, Iread enough to know that no suffering or hardship I could dream offor William to endure could possibly equal reality. I'd like to thankall those academic and genealogical researchers who have openedthis window to a dark and shameful part of our past.
Prologue
Cherry Vale, Oregon Country: July, 1846
The knife slid through skin and gristle with a sound likeripping silk. Flower gripped the bone hilt, stared at blood pumpingfrom the gaping cut. The man's body slackened onto the packed dirtfloor as the flow subsided. She let the knife drop.
"It is done," she said. "I am avenged."
She looked down at her bloody hand. "Now I must cleansemyself," she said, her voice sounding hollow and distant in her ownears. Rising, she pushed past Hattie's outstretched hand, and rushedinto the outer darkness.
Stumbling through the dark forest, she had no care forwhere she went. Her mind was filled with memories--of faces andplaces, of voices loved and feared, of joy and of pain.
At dawn, she went to ground in a half-cave left where aforest giant had fallen. She curled herself into a ball and tried toclear her mind while the voices raged in her head.
She hurt. Her face, her breasts. Most of all, her belly.
She held her pain unto herself, using it as a shield againstremembering. Failing.
"The greatest gift a young woman can give her husband ispurity."
"White men will see you as a filthy half-breed, my daughter,and they will treat you accordingly."
"Marry yourself a white man, leetle gal. They ain't an Injunalive will give you the kind of livin' you'd want."
"You are a child of sin, Pe-nah-he-ump, and you must neverforget that your soul is irremediably soiled."
And over and over, "Don't fight me, woman, or you willdie!"
She lived again the sharp pressure of the knife at her throat,the cutting of her shirt, the heat of his hands on her as he fondledher breasts, probed her secret places. The tearing agony as he shovedhimself deep into her with a swift, painful thrust.
And most of all she hated herself that she had notfought.
Chapter One
Fort Vancouver: November 1846
Konrad Muller sat far back in the smoky room, neverletting his gaze waver from the tall, buckskin-clad man who stood atthe crude bar. The stranger wasn't drinking, although a copper mugof grog sat at his right hand. He was leaning across the bar, talkingquietly and urgently to the bartender. Eventually an agreement musthave been reached, for the two shook hands. The gent in buckskindropped a coin on the bar, a coin that rang with a mellow note, acoin that was quickly caught up and concealed beneath a grimyapron.
Muller watched him leave, let him get well clear of the doorbefore following. Then he crossed the room as if he had nowhere togo, nothing to do. When the tavern door squealed closed behindhim, he slipped into the shadows of the Fort Vancouver stockadeuntil he came to the muddy track leading to the docks. No matterwhere his prey was headed, he was likely to go to the waterfrontfirst. Muller had seen him pay a young Indian to watch hispack.
Muller reached the waterfront first, faded into the shadowsof a stand of fir where he had a good view of the sleeping Indianleaning against the pack. The moon wouldn't set until near dawn, sohe wasn't likely to miss the gent's return. He could afford to bepatient. As he waited, he mentally spent the fortune in gold that wasto be his.
Muted speech woke Muller from a light doze. A pale winterdawn hovered over the mountains to the east. Three men, all talland lithe, all clad in fringed buckskins, were clustered about theIndian boy. Two pack mules carried traps and knobby bundles. Athird mule waited patiently.
Muller cursed under his breath. He watched, immobile, asthe man with the gold coins hefted his pack across the mule's backand swung up before it. Within minutes Muller's fortune rode outalong the trail heading east.
He wasn't more than an hour behind the trappers.
By the time the trio reached The Dalles, Muller was scarcelya mile behind, unworried that they would think him following. Thetraffic from Fort Vancouver was almost constant these days.
His pockets were all but empty. He'd been thinking on waysto acquire some of the silver brought West by new emigrants, butthen he'd been distracted by the tall trapper's unusual goldencoins.
If there were two coins, it was likely there were more.
* * * *
Valley of the Boise: March, 1847
William watched Buff's cabin all day, waiting for somemovement to show Flower was there. Nothing moved, savefluttering brown birds in the willows, a coyote nosing in the pile ofdry bones behind the outhouse. The air was still, so still that hecould hear the Boise River talkin' to itself, a full quarter-mileaway.
The log cabin wasn't much more than a dugout, its backsideright up against the hill behind it. The door opened in, but it wasthick wood planks and wouldn't be easy broke. He'd bide histime.
Every hour or so he stretched his legs, knowing that whenhe moved, it might have to be quickly. Whenever the cold seepedthrough the mountain sheep skin he wore like a coat, he tightenedhis arm and shoulder muscles.
Once in a while he saw a faint waver in the air above thechimney that told him there was heat inside, a careful fire ofwell-dried wood barely smoldering. William had tended fires in that veryfireplace and knew just how long it could smolder.
He had time. He could wait.
At dusk he moved closer, slipping among the thickcottonwood trunks until he was within fifty feet of the cabin door.He settled behind a clump of dry goldenrod, knowing his stainedand mottled leather clothing would blend with the standing deadstalks. Only his eyes could give him away, their whites gleaming inthe fading light.
Like a hunter, he could be patient. He had pursued her formonths now. A few hours, even a few days, would do nothing morethan try his patience.
He likened his vigil to that of a hunter, seeking woundedgame. She had gone to ground as surely as a gutshot doe, fated todie slowly and painfully. Except that her wounds were of the spirit,not of the body. Hadn't he seen other folks die when their spiritswere tried beyond belief?
It was full dark when the door opened. She could havebeen a shadow as she slipped through the narrow opening, movedsilently along the path toward the hot spring.
For the first time in weeks he allowed himself to relax,allowed his senses to retreat from full alert. He had found her.
She would not escape him again.
* * * *
Flower let herself back inside, wondering if she would everfeel clean again. She had bathed twice each day since returning toher father's cabin, had scrubbed her skin with the fine sandstone ofthe hillside until she felt flayed alive. She had fasted, as her mother'speople would have, hoping--praying--for a vision, for wisdom. Andshe had appealed to the God of Reverend Spalding, little as sheliked His vengeful omnipotence, for forgiveness.
How could He forgive her when she could not forgiveherself?
She shuddered when a droplet from her wet hair slippedbetween her breasts and down her belly. It was like the phantomtouch of a man's finger, intimate and invasive.
Except that the men's hands that had invaded her had notbeen so gentle, so careful.
With a soft cry, she pressed her buckskin dress against herbody, blotting the trespassing droplet.
Even though she had no appetite, Flower ate the last of thedried fish for supper. Tomorrow she must reset her snares, downalong the riverbank. Perhaps this time she would capture one of thegray geese that had been feeding there these past few days. And itwas time to set out her fish trap again. She would need food for herjourney. There would be little that she could gather along the trail,so early in the spring.
She needed firewood as well. The woodpile set against thecabin's outside wall was growing alarmingly smaller each day. Shehad already gleaned all the deadfalls from the nearby cottonwoodgroves. Upriver there were only dense willow thickets, and if shewere to go downriver, she might encounter some of Goat Runner'speople. Some of the men.
Flower sighed. Eventually she would have to face men, talkwith them, trade with them. She could not reach the safety shesought otherwise. Would she be able to hide her fear and her angerwhen she met strangers--strange men? She did not know.
All too soon she had tomorrow planned. And the n