CHAPTER ONE

June, 1775

Straight Arrow had been here before. Too many times. He ran his hand over his hair, then straightened his heavy British officer's jacket. The wool was wet from moving through dew-covered brush so early in the morning, and he was more than uncomfortable. Any other day as warm as this he would not have worn it, but today he wanted--

What? To impress her?

The thought surprised him. Arrow could not remember the last time he felt nervous over a white eye--a female, at that. Furthermore, he could not remember the last time he had been interested in a woman. Period.

No, he told himself. He was not interested. He just needed her.

Mercy Whitstone. She was a plain woman, leaving no doubt as to why she did not have any suitors. Her hair was dull brown like wet sand. She wore it in a tight bun that looked painful. She stood only a few inches shorter than himself. She wore a threadbare homespun dress always with an apron tied over it, dirty from hours of toiling in the trading post.

She was hard working. That was a very good thing. One of the reasons he chose her. That and he did not speak to many women.

Women of any race certainly did not speak to him.

Arrow had met her here two months ago when he had come to trade pelts. She had smiled at him, acted polite, like he mattered. She did not act afraid of him as he had first thought she would. Just why she was not afraid he did not know.

His friend, Thomas Spearance, had answered his questions about her and to his credit he did not question Arrow's motives. Tom was a white eye, the only one Arrow felt he could trust. He had said she was a widow, had been a mother but something had happened. No doubt she would again want children.

Another reason he chose her.

He waited until the trading post was free of people. There had only been four traders and now the last one was bidding her farewell. She made small talk with him. She chatted about the weather, when they would again receive rain, his wife and children. Arrow had lived amongst the whites his whole life, but he always had to concentrate to understand what they were saying when they spoke fast. Mercy Whitstone seemed to want the man to stay, although she looked tired. Or angry. He was not sure which.

When the man left, Arrow pretended to be a regular customer. There was no need to alarm her prematurely. She would no doubt be scared enough once she realized his intentions.

~ * ~

Mercy Whitstone was used to dealing with Indians. They came to the trading post often. To barter mostly. Pelts for weapons or gunpowder. Sometimes they sought something stronger but to John Grossman's credit he did not sell spirits at this post. She had seen this Indian before. Just lately he had been coming here more often. Mercy had always been fascinated with the native people, especially the woman. She had seen a few in Albany and they seemed hardworking, not submissive in the slightest.

She could get used to a life like that.

This Indian was equally fascinating. He was not tall, taller than her own five-feet-six-inches, but not tall when compared to most men. His hair was long, tied back and falling down his back like a midnight waterfall. His jawline was square, his nose hawklike. He wore a British-issued military jacket likely to support the side he took in this war, but it wasn't just that. This was a gold-trimmed officer's jacket. To obtain a jacket like that he surely must have killed someone of power.

His chest was bare underneath. Chiseled abdominal muscles told of years of physical endurance. Leather straps criss crossed his chest, each carrying various tomahawks, knives, and possible bags. He wore a quiver of arrows across his back and carried a flintlock musket. This man was clearly on the move, and he did not come in peace.

Resting her palms on the worn oak counter, she met the Indian's gaze. His eyes were black, hard, perhaps from years on the battlefield. Something fluttered in her core. There was something about this man. Not the danger. Working in a woman-starved frontier trading post certainly provided enough uncertainty if it was danger she sought. It was something else. Something she could not put a finger on.

This man was exotic. Raw, rugged, like the land that encompassed them.

"Hello again."

He said nothing, did not even give a hint of a nod. Rude. She hated rude men and there were so many of them in her line of work. They were, afterall she firmly believed, the reason we were in this war for independence in the first place.

"What can I help you with?"

"I need you."

Immediate panic formed a lump in her throat. Was he a spy? Few knew anything about her doings with the war, only John, who owned this trading post but to his credit asked no questions of her whereabouts. Ever. Just always told her to be safe.

"You will come with me."

Mercy squared her shoulders, all too aware of the tiny hairs standing at the base of her neck. "Why?"

"Because I need you."

"For what?"

"I cannot tell you."

She huffed. "Then I won't come."

"Then I will take you by force."

The Indian leapt over the counter before she even had time to back up. He rushed her, clamping a hand over her mouth so that she could not speak. Not that anyone would hear her. John had left for his town meeting over an hour ago.

She fought him as he pulled her back over the counter, his strength easily overpowering her.

Panic tripped her heartbeat. He was going to kill her. She had not come this far to be killed by a stranger. She elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he released her. She ran but he quickly caught up with her, shoved her into a shelf of dry goods, knocking it over. He caught her roughly around the waist, easily pulling her up and over his shoulder. She bit his arm and he released her. She fell to the floor hitting her head, nearly knocking herself unconscious.

The Indian flipped her over on her back, his knee pressing down between her shoulder blades. He tied her arms behind her back.

Panic screamed in her throat. She tried to yell but no sound came out. She would die here. Or he would rape her in the woods and leave her for dead. Maybe he would sell her for ransom, but who in their right mind would want her?

She couldn't even fight with her arms tied. Hauling her by the arm, he pulled her up, roughly pulled her outside.

The sun was high overhead, and the morning bright and muggy as it had been for weeks now. There was no one in sight, no customers. She looked past the clearing where John and his wife had a small farm. Their two jersey cows lazily chewed their cud paying no mind to Mercy's terror. John's wife, Sarah, would be tending to her babies, too busy to see her getting dragged away. Sarah had a family, a husband who would die protecting her. Mercy had no one. Not even a witness to notice she was being kidnapped.

Mercy dug her heels into the dirt, refusing to budge.

"Come or I will carry you."

Let him try . She was not light and as strong as he seemed she doubted he could carry her far. She met his gaze squarely, refusing to let him see her fear. All she had to do was make it across the clearing to John's farm. Just scream for Sarah. If she could even hear her. Sarah had suffered and survived a sickness in her youth and it had left her hard of hearing.

It was worth a shot.

She took her opportunity and sprinted toward the farm. Running was slower with her arms bound behind her back. She tripped, nearly fell but caught herself. The Indian was quick on her heels. He would catch her. She didn't have a chance.

"Sarah!" she screamed, knowing she wouldn't hear her. "Sarah! Help me!"

The Indian caught her by her bindings, whipping her around. She kicked at him but he didn't stop. He pulled her up and over his shoulder. She kicked him in the gut, bit his shoulder. He dropped her and she struggled to get up. He grabbed her before she had time, easily hoisted her up and over his shoulder and ran toward the woods.

Mercy's last glimpse was of the farm. Sarah hadn't even heard her screams.