laughter, fighting to make no sound while Old Man tried to placate his wives. The memory hit her so suddenly and with such clarity that for a moment she nearly forgot why she was standing there. Looking into Swift’s eyes, she felt for a timeless instant as if she were floating, that there was no present, only yesterday, she a child, he a carefree young man.
“Do you think he ever figured out it was us who tugged the ropes?” Swift asked.
Amy blinked. Old Man had been slain in a massacre shortly after that night, murdered by border ruffians. Reality and all its harshness came sweeping back to her. With it came self-awareness. She was no longer a child, and Swift didn’t look at her as if she were. They both knew what Old Man’s wives had been hoping for when they ran so eagerly to his lodge.
She couldn’t drag her gaze from his. To know that he, of all men, had seen her behave with such a total lack of propriety made her feel dangerously vulnerable. And here she stood, attired in nothing but a nightdress and wrapper, in what was fast approaching broad daylight. “I—” She searched desperately for something, anything, to say. “I’m going to be late.”
With that, she turned and scurried for the house. The rhythmic sound of the ax continued the entire time she dressed for school. She grabbed a chunk of bread and an apple for lunch, then left the house, slamming the door with such force the windows shook. Swift upended the ax on the chopping block and propped an arm on the handle’s end. His gaze followed her as she swept past him in a blaze of anger. There was only one word to describe that look in his eye, predatory. And, God help her, she was his prey.
Chapter 5
THE FIRST THING AMY CLAPPED EYES ON WHEN she stepped inside her classroom was Swift’s black poncho hanging on the coatrack. As soon as she’d set down her books, she walked over to dispose of the disgusting thing, but when she reached for the coarse black wool, her arm began to shake. Try though she might, she couldn’t force her fingers to clasp the garment.
Slowly the children began to filter in. Aside from the concern for her welfare because she had fainted the prior afternoon, it seemed like any other day, yet not, for she knew Swift lurked somewhere in town and that he might, at any time, appear in the doorway. Just in case, she closed the door but soon reopened it when the children began to look flushed. It was an uncommonly warm morning for October, and the classroom was a misery without some fresh air.
Before Amy called class to order, she heard a distant popping sound. Gunfire.
Swift always had been one to practice with his weaponry, so hearing the shots shouldn’t have surprised her. Memories assailed her, of Swift teaching her to throw a knife, his strong hands enfolding hers, his chest against her back, his deep voice whispering next to her ear. If only they could go back. If only the years hadn’t changed each of them so.
Amy licked her lips and dragged her mind back to the present, to the gunfire. Swift was no longer a gentle boy. He had killed more men than he could count and had joked about the number last night. Not more than ninety. One was too many.
Another volley of shots rang out. Distracted by the sound, nerves leaping, Amy relied on ingrained habit and opened the day’s lesson with arithmetic, then proceeded to spelling. When the distant sound of gunfire ceased, her senses, alert for the slightest sound, became riveted to the doorway. During recess, she refused the girls’ invitations to join them outside for a game of jacks. Instead she sat at her desk, back to the wall, nibbling her apple and trying without success to read.
By the end of the day, Amy’s nerves had frazzled. As relieved as she felt that Swift hadn’t visited the school, she still had the remainder of the afternoon and the evening to get through. In no hurry to go home, where he was sure to find her, she sat at her desk to check her notes on
“Do you think he ever figured out it was us who tugged the ropes?” Swift asked.
Amy blinked. Old Man had been slain in a massacre shortly after that night, murdered by border ruffians. Reality and all its harshness came sweeping back to her. With it came self-awareness. She was no longer a child, and Swift didn’t look at her as if she were. They both knew what Old Man’s wives had been hoping for when they ran so eagerly to his lodge.
She couldn’t drag her gaze from his. To know that he, of all men, had seen her behave with such a total lack of propriety made her feel dangerously vulnerable. And here she stood, attired in nothing but a nightdress and wrapper, in what was fast approaching broad daylight. “I—” She searched desperately for something, anything, to say. “I’m going to be late.”
With that, she turned and scurried for the house. The rhythmic sound of the ax continued the entire time she dressed for school. She grabbed a chunk of bread and an apple for lunch, then left the house, slamming the door with such force the windows shook. Swift upended the ax on the chopping block and propped an arm on the handle’s end. His gaze followed her as she swept past him in a blaze of anger. There was only one word to describe that look in his eye, predatory. And, God help her, she was his prey.
Chapter 5
THE FIRST THING AMY CLAPPED EYES ON WHEN she stepped inside her classroom was Swift’s black poncho hanging on the coatrack. As soon as she’d set down her books, she walked over to dispose of the disgusting thing, but when she reached for the coarse black wool, her arm began to shake. Try though she might, she couldn’t force her fingers to clasp the garment.
Slowly the children began to filter in. Aside from the concern for her welfare because she had fainted the prior afternoon, it seemed like any other day, yet not, for she knew Swift lurked somewhere in town and that he might, at any time, appear in the doorway. Just in case, she closed the door but soon reopened it when the children began to look flushed. It was an uncommonly warm morning for October, and the classroom was a misery without some fresh air.
Before Amy called class to order, she heard a distant popping sound. Gunfire.
Swift always had been one to practice with his weaponry, so hearing the shots shouldn’t have surprised her. Memories assailed her, of Swift teaching her to throw a knife, his strong hands enfolding hers, his chest against her back, his deep voice whispering next to her ear. If only they could go back. If only the years hadn’t changed each of them so.
Amy licked her lips and dragged her mind back to the present, to the gunfire. Swift was no longer a gentle boy. He had killed more men than he could count and had joked about the number last night. Not more than ninety. One was too many.
Another volley of shots rang out. Distracted by the sound, nerves leaping, Amy relied on ingrained habit and opened the day’s lesson with arithmetic, then proceeded to spelling. When the distant sound of gunfire ceased, her senses, alert for the slightest sound, became riveted to the doorway. During recess, she refused the girls’ invitations to join them outside for a game of jacks. Instead she sat at her desk, back to the wall, nibbling her apple and trying without success to read.
By the end of the day, Amy’s nerves had frazzled. As relieved as she felt that Swift hadn’t visited the school, she still had the remainder of the afternoon and the evening to get through. In no hurry to go home, where he was sure to find her, she sat at her desk to check her notes on
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