1785

Day 1

The hunter sits crouched in the split of a tree trunk watching the colors of dusk burning the cloudy sky. The light recedes, taking any remnant of the sun's warmth from the air with it and carrying the sharp smell of more snow in on the wind. A recent warm spell had melted almost all the snow in the region except for the shadowy north facing areas but that brief respite from the cold will end by nightfall. The hunter pulls his hood farther forward and adjusts the bow he has resting across his thighs. Rubbing his eyes and face, he ponders giving up his attempt at getting a kill. This time of year is always difficult; game is getting scarce as winter resists the onset of spring. The sound of a gunshot and distant shouts earlier in the evening had probably driven any creatures far from the area around the tree. The human incursion into this once plentiful region is sapping the population of game to a dangerously low level. He has to travel farther and stay out longer than ever before to trap and shoot with success.

The man in the tree doesn't mind taking long hunting trips, however. He had had adventurous younger years and any attempt he has made at settling into a simpler way of life leaves him feeling anxious and restless. At times he will stay away from his village for months when his personal business takes him back to Boston, New York or other, more distant locales and he often spends time hunting just for the peace he finds in solitude. On one of his trips he had found a hunting cabin several days' travel from his village, hidden part way up a ravine and overlooking a waterfall. The structure appeared to have been wedged into a crevice in the rock walls of the cliff behind it, its log walls butting up to the cliff and sealed with clay. There was the look of occupancy from the curl of smoke coming from the chimney but the hunter's knocks and calls went unanswered. When he looked in one of the windows he had seen an old man sitting hunched over in a chair before the dying fire. The hunter waited to see if the man would wake but he never did and no one else showed up.

A solitary grave site in the trees now marks the final resting place of the cabin's former occupant. The hunter took the place for himself as a camp he can retreat to when he needs to spend time by himself. A hidden door in the back of the cabin conceals a natural cave where dry food and supplies are conveniently kept warm in winter and cool in summer. It is an ideal set up not only in ingenuity but also in its secluded location. Only one close friend of the hunter's is aware of his camp and had promised to retain the secret of its whereabouts.

The sun is nearly set when the hunter decides to give up his fruitless endeavor. The branches of the leafless trees are creaking in the wind and snowflakes are starting to sift down from the heavy clouds. It is time to head back to his camp. He thinks on the long hike ahead of him to reach the cabin and the snow that will make the path treacherous once he reaches the steep trail leading up the gorge. As he shifts to get up and sling his bow around his body, the tight ache in his right side reminds him that he is not as young as he used to be. He's only just in his thirties but his muscles already protest long periods spent crouched in trees and old injuries are quick to remind him of his tumultuous life. Once he gets to climbing, the pain subsides and he feels himself again. When he is almost to the bottom he pauses and listens to the wind. A noise carries to him from the south-east that sounds almost like the wail of a wildcat but eerily more human. Something about it bothers him so once he touches the ground he starts jogging in the direction it had come from. The intermittent screaming becomes louder and clearer, defining it as human. What makes him feel ill is his growing certainty that it is a woman.

The smell of fire smoke is in the air, alerting him to an occupied camp nearby. A narrow track leads through the underbrush and a dead horse lies across it, snowflakes collecting on the cold hide. Stopping briefly to examine it, the hunter observes scrape marks in the dirt and signs of a scuffle. The horse appears to have been killed by a single gunshot wound to the neck, though it seems to have been in good health at the time of its demise. There is nothing more to be learned from the animal so he continues along the path, picking up his pace to a run until the sounds of a man's shouting, accompanied by a woman's weeping and pleading cries, reach his ears between the screams. His heart sinks when he hears the crack of a lash preceding the next scream coming from a small cabin in the trees ahead. The hunter loosens his knife on the back of his belt, takes his hatchet out of its loop and balances the weight in his hand, looking at its unique design. The blade is cut out in the center, creating the outline of a triangle. The peak of the triangle passes through the wooden handle, ending in a spike and the wide bottom hacking blade is curved and honed to a sharp edge with two short prongs on each of the corners. A feather dangles from the handle just above his grip. It has not been necessary to involve himself in combat for some weeks but this is now an unavoidable confrontation. There is no excuse for such heinous injustice to be done to another human, especially a woman.

Two saddled horses are tied to the branch of a tree at the corner of the cabin. The hunter approaches and unloops the reins, tossing them over onto the horses' backs. He slaps them lightly on the rumps and they wander away from the cabin. The weeping coming from inside is sporadic and when the inevitable sound of the whip comes, the scream is ragged and weak. An unshaven man dressed in dark clothing steps from the cabin and the hunter conceals himself behind a tree as the man starts urinating on the wall. The door to the cabin is hanging open and the man shouts to someone inside.

"The cap'n said he might just kill her when we're done having her this time. Said she's too much trouble to keep around so we might as well get rid of her." Unintelligible words and laughter come from someone inside. The pissing man spits on the ground as he finishes up his business but freezes when he feels the touch of an icy blade on his neck. The hunter drags the detestable man away from the open door by his collar, spinning him to face away from the door. A single hit to the backs of his knees knocks him to the dirt. Before the man can raise an alarm, the hunter slits his throat and pushes him face first into the frozen ground.

At the door to the cabin, another lash pierces the air but this time there is no scream following it, nor are there any sounds of weeping. An angry voice from inside rises loudly.

"Wake up you worthless whore. Dammit, I'm not done with you yet! Wake up!" Two more whiplashes follow in close succession. There is no time to waste. The interior of the cabin is dim, lit only by the dying embers of an untended fire and a lantern on a table in the corner. The building reeks of unwashed bodies, burned food and smoke. The hunter steps over the threshold and lets his eyes adjust to the dimness. A hunched figure sits at the table with the lantern, eating something off the end of his knife. The man glances over towards where the hunter is standing in the doorway and then stands up, scraping the bit of food off his blade onto the plate and raising the knife towards the intruder.

"Who the hell are you? Get the fuck out!" When he gets no response, the man starts to walk towards the doorway but the hunter silently throws his hatchet with a smooth overhand motion, dropping the approaching man heavily to the floor. Moving quickly to the crumpled man, the hunter pulls the hatchet free of his skull and enters the adjacent room. Horrified, he stops just past the door frame, unable to move or look away from the gruesome sight before him. A woman in a torn and bloody sleeveless shift is partially hanging from a rope tied around her right wrist. The rope passes through an iron eyelet fixed to a beam in the ceiling and then is wrapped around a hook on the wall at waist height. Another rope hangs from a second, identical setup, the loop swinging empty where she possibly pulled her other hand free at some point in her suffering. The one free arm dangles with her hand inches from the floor. Both arms are covered in bloody scratches and murky bruises. Long, tangled, dark hair obscures her face and only partly conceals the torn state of her back. Her knees have buckled and there is a puddle of blood under her but the saturated hem of her skirt is obscuring where it is coming from. Though her back bleeds from her injuries, her wounds do not account for the quantity of blood on the floor. A stained straw mattress lies nearby; its purpose is clearly for the further abuse and violation of the woman. Sadly, it appears he was too late to save her but at least her unspeakable suffering has ended forever. The hunter is filled with anger and disgust for what transpired here.

A noise at the far end of the room draws the hunter's attention and the light of a small lantern hanging from a hook on the far wall illuminates one side of a tall, thin man holding a coiled whip in his right hand. The light of the lantern reflects off his eyes and casts dark shadows on his face as he meets the hunter's stare with a defiant tilt to his head, his lip curling in an unspoken challenge. Hate threatens to blind the hunter as he tightens his grip on his hatchet, raising it up beside him as he moves past the woman. The man rushes him, taking a knife from his belt, but the hunter avoids him smoothly, raising his hatchet to deliver a killing blow. The man unexpectedly pulls up, blocking the hunter's swing and sweeping his legs out from under him with a slash of his whip. The hatchet skids across the floor, spinning, and comes to rest near the feet of the dead woman. Thinking he would be as easy a target as the other two, the hunter had badly underestimated the abilities of this man. Now consumed by a burning, righteous rage, he unsheathes his serrated hunting knife and rises to his feet, ready to grapple with his opponent.

They are fairly well matched in speed and agility, for both men are capable fighters. Dodging the whip, the hunter moves closer with every step, looking for an opening to dart in and slash with his knife. The man parries his attacks with skill but the hunter's greater strength and rage-fueled power steadily drives the man back toward the far wall of the cabin. In the final few feet of space, the man swings his whip and manages to wrap it around the hunter's raised left arm. Thinking he has won an advantage, he sneers in confident satisfaction. Before he can pull his whip back to strike, the hunter grabs the braided leather cord in his hand and hauls the man towards him. Suddenly in a panic, the man swings his blade but the hunter ducks, burying his hunting knife into his opponent's stomach. The man doubles over with a groan, dropping the handle of the whip and clawing at the hilt of the hunter's knife. The hunter stands and grabs the front of the man's right shoulder with his left hand, standing him up. He wrenches the knife up vertically inside his adversary before quickly extracting it and stabbing him twice more in the neck, pushing the body backwards to fall against the wall. Taking the lantern off the hook, he smashes it onto the floor next to the dead man, splashing burning oil over the body and onto the cabin walls.

Breathing hard from the encounter, the hunter unwinds the whip from his arm and wipes a spatter of the man's blood off his face. He tosses the whip onto the burning body and decides that he should at least cut the poor woman down and bury her. When he turns to retrieve his hatchet, both it and the woman are gone. His heart pounds with shock that she is still alive. There are multiple shallow marks in the wall where she hacked with poor aim at the rope close to the hook. The pool of blood that had been under her is disturbed and spread out, slip marks and handprints revealing her struggles. They shine wetly in the lurid light of the burning body behind him and leave a trail for him to follow into the first room. Streaky handprints on the wall and table reveal her weakened state. The hunter takes the lantern off the table and holds it up to illuminate the room. Dilapidated bunks and clutter take up the space but the woman is not there, only the body of the man he killed. He steps over the corpse, wipes his knife on the clothing and moves to the door, following the irregular spacing of smeared footprints on the floor. There is another bloody mark on the frame and a small amount of dark blood in the dirt. The snow is falling at a steady rate and he knows he has to find the woman soon before her marks are obliterated. He sheathes the knife against his back, tosses the lantern into the center of the foul room behind him and walks away as the fuel ignites the bedding of the bunks.

The hunter carefully follows the intermittent trail of blood in the weak light of the clouded moon towards a small hill near the cabin where a large boulder is partly hidden among the trees. He assumed she would make for the woods but her trail is extraordinarily easy to follow. As he gets to the hill her trail changes, becoming a wide path of disturbed leaves. It appears she had fallen and started crawling. Another smear of blood on the side of the boulder marks where she must be hiding. He wasn't fighting the last man for long and she couldn't have gotten far in her state, especially if she is no longer able to walk. A fine white mist drifts from the other side of the boulder and relief fills him that she is there. Intentionally allowing his approach to be heard, his feet make crunching noises as he walks up the hill over dried leaves and crispy fresh snowfall. As he rounds the boulder the woman's knees come into sight. She is sitting on the leafy ground, leaning her left shoulder against the rock face with her head hanging down. When the hunter squats down in front of her she rears back with his hatchet in her hand. She lets out a hoarse shout as she swings his weapon towards his head. Calmly, he raises his left hand and catches her arm, stopping her swing before she is anywhere near hitting him. Her eyes widen in shock and she braces her left hand against the center of his chest and pushes while trying to free her other arm from his hand. Her fear and effort show in her face and in the throaty sounds she is making as she strains against his grip. A wide trail of dried blood crusts her chin and neck below her bottom lip which is deeply split and swollen. When she fails to free herself she claws desperately at his face, scratching him down his cheek and onto his neck before he can stop her.

Her fear rapidly escalates into panic as she fights his hold. She thrashes wildly against his grip and starts screaming.

"Leave me alone! Let me go! Let go!" The hunter tries to talk to the woman but her hoarse, gravelly shrieks drown out anything he attempts to say. Reluctantly, he decides to restrain her further before she smashes her head against the rock in her struggles. He pulls her away from the boulder by her forearms and she tries desperately to resist, screaming and bracing her knees but she is a small woman and he easily subdues her. A long length of the rope that held her is still tied to her wrist and it trails behind her as the hunter brings her to the side as gently as possible while she twists against his hands. He presses her down on her back, raising her arms up on either side of her head. When her back touches the frozen ground her screams become harsh, wordless and agonized until her voice gives out completely. She kicks her legs and tosses her head from side to side, her mouth open in a soundless yell. The hunter straddles her waist to avoid being kicked and puts the tops of his feet just above her knees to hold her legs down. Her strength lasts only moments longer, as she is weak, exhausted and in terrible pain from the trials she has already been through.

She finally lays limp and quiet, her head turned away from the hunter's gaze. Her breathing is heavy and rapid from her exertions and the mist from her breath mingles with the hunter's as he assesses her state. Her face is puffy on one side from a nasty strike and he assumes from the type of people that held her it was a closed fist. Rings of finger shaped bruises and red marks cover her neck and arms. Her wrists are rubbed raw from rope burns and her palms and the bottoms of her forearms are marred by long, lengthwise scratches and dried blood as if she had fallen or had been dragged. The front of her filthy shift is ripped open down the middle almost all the way to her waist, exposing bruises on the curving inner sides of her small breasts. Despite her ragged and injured state she is very pretty and he wonders how she ended up a prisoner in this cabin out here in the woods, miles from anywhere. In the silence of the snowy night somewhere in the distance, the hunter hears the two horses he freed crashing farther away through the forest, no doubt reacting to the smoke of the fire he started.

The woman's heart is racing and her back is burning from her weight pressing into the hard ground. The man holding her down is looking at her body and she wonders when he is going to start raping her now that she has stopped fighting him. The metallic taste of blood is on her tongue from reopening the cut on her lip, adding to her already rising nausea.

"Please do not try to hit me with my tomahawk again." The woman turns her head to face the man when he speaks. His voice is smooth and low. He articulates his words carefully, almost slowly, in a distinctive manner. Most of the man's face is cast in shadow from the hood he wears pulled far forward on his head, leaving only his mouth and chin fully visible. He has blood spattered across his massive chest and arms, a few drops dotting one of the beaded armbands tied high on each of his jacket sleeves. The top end of a bow extends beyond his left shoulder, the string crossing his chest diagonally and a quiver full of blue or grey fletched arrows is just visible behind his head. Her heart continues to race in fear. He is a killer; she had almost fallen over the two bodies at the cabin when she was escaping. What does he want? She wishes he had just killed the men and let her free. If he wants her for himself, why doesn't he just take her already?

"Let me go. Please." She can barely whisper through her swollen lip and aching throat.

"I want to help you. I am letting go of you now." He releases his grip on her arms, sits back and raises his hands with his palms facing her. She stays still, wondering if he is going to hit her or if this is some cruel game he is playing with her. Moving slowly, he shifts over to kneel at her side and she feels better without him straddling her and pinning her down so completely. She lifts her left hand from the dirt and reaches down to the tear in her clothing, pulling it closed over her breasts. The man moves his hands to his hood and pulls it back. The light of the burning cabin shines on his face, revealing dark skinned Indian features, a wide jawline, dark eyes, and black hair that falls to just past his chin. A single, thin braid embellished with beads on the bottom hangs from one side of his head and the top section of his hair is pulled back into a short ponytail. The scratches she gave him have left two trails of shining blood that curve from the side of his cheek, under his jaw and around to the front of his neck. They disappear under the front edge of his jacket. He is a giant of a man who looks fierce and extremely dangerous despite his offer to help and he looms over her.

"My name is Ratonhnhake:ton, but you can call me Connor. I am not going to harm you. Try to sit up. We need to get you someplace safe." Connor extends his hand towards the frightened woman and she flinches, pulling the hatchet to her chest facing him edge out and gripping it in both hands awkwardly. If she wasn't so terrified of him, he would laugh at the useless way she thinks she could defend herself.

"I promise I will not hurt you. Keep my tomahawk if it makes you feel better but this storm will be worse soon and you will not survive without my help." He rises to a crouched position with one knee on the ground and again reaches toward her. The woman finally shifts her body, reaching one hand back to push herself up to a sitting position, whimpering in pain. Even such a small movement is excruciating for her but she stubbornly shies away from his proffered assistance so he stands and watches as she somehow manages to get herself to her feet. She is favoring her left foot badly and it is seeping blood. She must have some kind of wound on it for it to be bleeding so much. The woman braces her hands against the boulder behind her and she appears to be steeling herself for more movement. She clutches the hatchet just below the blade and swallows, baring her bloodstained teeth at him when he motions with his fingers for her to come closer.

The woman can't believe this is happening. He seems to be concerned for her but she has no way to be sure. He looks savage and formidable where he stands in the light of the fire, looking down at her. Maybe he will rape and kill her later. Thinking clearly has become a chore and the pain in her body is making her confusion worse. The longer she stands the more the world spins around her. The cold has numbed her foot slightly and she considers running from him. No. It would only anger him. He would catch me in a moment. Lord, he's so tall…. Her thoughts are mixed up and not making any sense. Closing her eyes, she tries to clear her head and stop the spinning. When she opens them he is still standing there looking at her with his arm out. He doesn't seem to be giving any indication of leaving without her. The woman takes a breath. What more do I have to lose if my fate should be in his hands or another's? I shall die anyway. She moves her left foot forward and slowly lowers it down. The pain is like a strike of lightening shooting up her leg when she puts weight on it. Her knee buckles and the man is on her again! He has her by her left arm and she wrenches her body sideways to free herself, dropping the hatchet and scrabbling at his fingers with her right hand. If she still had a voice, she would have been screaming but like the worst kind of nightmare, only a ragged, breathy noise comes out. Her right foot slips toward him on the loose leaves and the sudden shift in balance makes her body swing in an arc away from the boulder. Throwing her right arm out, she tries to grab hold of the ground but her fingers only turn up leaves and small rocks which give her no purchase. He holds on until she stops pivoting and lowers her slowly down before releasing her arm. She twists her upper body to face the ground and bows her forehead down to her hands, panting. The hatchet catches her eyes. It's just out of reach and she frantically crawls over and snatches it into both of her hands, glancing back over her shoulder at the man and squeezing the handle tightly.

Connor watches the woman as she casts an almost feral look at him from where she lies on her belly in the dirt clutching the weapon. He sighs in frustration at the woman's willful insistence on resisting help despite her very thorough incapacitation.

"Listen to me. You have to let me carry you. If you do not let me help you, you will freeze to death tonight. Is that what you want?" Connor immediately wishes he hadn't spoken so harshly. The prostrate woman makes a choking sound in her throat and looks like she is going to vomit as she pulls her knees up under her body. Connor closes his eyes and shakes his head. He takes a step closer and crouches down to her, trying to make eye contact. Her left hand strays to the ripped portion of her shift and she clasps the frayed edges together with a shaking grasp.

"I am sorry. I know you have been through a lot. I am begging you to believe me when I say that will not hurt you." The woman stares at his face for a long time, shivering as snowflakes collect in her hair. He nods at her once in encouragement and she squeezes her eyes shut and bows her head. How much worse could things get? At least he's only one man and not three... If he does rape me I'm no worse off than I was only a short time ago. At least I will live just a little longer and not freeze like a beast in the wild. Her bottom lip quivers for a moment but she presses her lips together, having made her decision.

"Alright." she whispers, looks of resignation and determination crossing her face in turn. Connor pulls his hood up and extends his hands to her. She leans away from them and takes a deep, quavering breath. Slowly, she releases her hold on her torn shift and reaches her left hand toward him. He lightly wraps his fingers around her elbow and gestures with his left hand for her to give him her other arm. The hatchet shakes in her grip as she raises her hand toward him and she becomes rigid as a stone when his fingers touch her skin. He extends his arm out, sliding his palm along the underside of her forearm until he reaches her elbow. The woman watches his hand moving up her arm with a horrified look on her face, as if he is a venomous snake poised to bite. He closes his fingers around her elbow and draws her arm towards him.

"We need to stand up." The man has both of her arms now and the world is spinning so rapidly before her eyes that the frightened woman knows she cannot stand again alone. For just a moment, she turns her face and meets his eyes, giving her assent by closing the fingers of her left hand on the fabric of his sleeve. A wave of nausea rolls over her and she looks away. She finds that she can control her dizziness better if she just focuses on one thing and at the moment it is the patterned band around his upper arm. His hands close tighter around her elbows and he stands slowly, lifting her up with him and allowing her to adjust her balance on her uninjured foot, stabilizing her when she falters.

"I am going to pick you up now. Are you ready?" She starts to pull back from him but then stops, touching the tip of her tongue to her bleeding lip. In the darkness, her nod is almost imperceptible. The muscles in her forearm tense under Connor's hand as she clenches the handle of his tomahawk. He steps closer and moves his hands to her wrists, lifting her arms up and placing them around his neck. With her hands raised so high, her body is almost touching his. She keeps her head twisted away from his face as much as possible, her expression a contorted combination of terror and hopeless desperation. Connor gathers the rope dangling from her wrist and loops it around the back of his neck and over his shoulder to the front. The woman starts trembling as he reaches around her body and places his right hand on her right shoulder blade. She inhales sharply and flinches away, only to bump against his chest. Her eyes squeeze shut as Connor replaces his hand on her and she shudders under his touch, a restrained sob of fear escaping her. He bends to scoop her knees up and she gasps out in pain as her weight shifts onto his arm. She clutches at the back of his hood, jabbing a corner of the hatchet into his shoulder as she tries to arch her back off of his arm.

"I am sorry. I know this hurts. I will do my best not to make it worse but we have a long trip ahead of us." The woman bows her head and nods, panting through clenched teeth. Connor starts walking but despite his best efforts her erratic breathing gives away her horrible discomfort. He wishes he had the horses from the cabin but he hadn't wanted to take the risk of anyone escaping to raise an alarm.

The woman lowers her head against her new captor's shoulder and tries to breathe slowly, focusing on anything but her pain and dizziness. The smell of wood smoke and leather come from the man's clothes, combined with wet fabric and the peppery, earthy scent of his body. The raw skin on her back chafes against his sleeve and she tries to pull herself off his arm whenever she can. Over time, her arms grow shaky from the effort and she has to lay back. The man continually turns his head to look at her but the misty fog from his breathing often obscures her view of his face in the moments when she can focus through the pain, making it impossible to read his expression. She is incredibly cold and can no longer control her shivering; her teeth chatter loudly and her muscles feel frayed, adding to her pain. Finally she can no longer hold herself off of him and waves of pain unceasingly wash over her body as she trembles in his arms.

Some time later, Connor feels her grip around his neck weakening and she is fighting yet failing to keep her head up. Her warm exhalations misting into the cold night lessen in frequency as her shivering abates, giving him even greater cause to worry. The hand holding the hatchet slips into her lap and shortly after, her other arm drops behind him. Her head falls backwards but when he shakes her she weakly picks it up with a soft groan.

"Stay awake. You must not fall asleep." Connor shifts her so her head rests against his shoulder better but when she eventually loses consciousness it tips back again and her right hand slips from under the tomahawk on her lap, allowing her arm to dangle loosely from her shoulder. Melting snowflakes collect into beads of water on her skin that run down her arms, neck and chest. He shakes her to try to wake her up but all he gets from her is a quiet moan. Her long hair is soaked from the heavy snowfall and the bottom edges that hang almost to the ground are frozen and scraping against his leg as he walks. Connor debates whether he should stop and try to wrap her in his jacket but it would take so much time to rearrange all his gear that he fears he would lose his window of safety for the climb to the cabin. Despite the near white-out conditions, he has been making good time and decides to press on. He kneels to readjust her limp body, tucking her arms in against her abdomen and sliding his tomahawk into its place on his belt. Lifting her higher against his chest when he stands back up, she doesn't even react. Her head lolls against his neck and the only indication of life coming from her are the intermittent bursts of hazy warmth from her shallow breathing. Fortunately she is not very heavy and he wonders how long it has been since she has eaten a good meal. He can feel every rib under his fingers.

Connor starts jogging, knowing that she is beyond feeling any pain now and he just needs to get her warm as soon as possible. The snow is now to his ankles and all he can think of is the final climb up the edge of the gorge. The path he takes brings them alongside a river and a cliff wall rises on the opposite bank. Before long, the trail leading up the gorge comes into sight and he slows down to catch his breath and prepare himself for the climb. If he slips now, his efforts will have been pointless. Connor stops again to lift the woman onto his right shoulder and uses the rope to pull her right arm over so he can grasp her cold hand tightly next to his neck. Her hip bone is sharp against his shoulder and neck and digs in harder when he loops his arm across the backs of her thighs to hold her securely in place. Connor picks his way carefully up the steep trail and by the time he reaches the door to his cabin, he is sweating. Steam rises from his body and he hopes some of his heat has transferred to the lifeless woman he carries.

Inside the cabin, Connor carefully lowers the woman off his shoulder and eases her onto her back in front of the fireplace. He stoops over her, looking for signs of life. Her lips are blue and if not for feeling her breath on his skin, she looks dead to him for the second time in just a few hours. The dark remnants from this morning's fire are cold so he stirs the ash and digs up a few orange embers from the very bottom that he coaxes to ignite some kindling. Once the fire takes, he removes his dripping belt, bow, quiver, jacket and boots, sets the clothing items to dry near the fire and retrieves the top blanket off his bed. The woman's shift is soaking wet and sticking to her skin and can see her entire body through the translucent fabric. His eyes are drawn to her curving hips and small, shapely breasts, her hard nipples dark beneath the fabric. He tries not to look, feeling almost like he's raping her himself because she hasn't consented to let him see her like this.

Connor pulls her up by her shoulders to get the blanket under her. He holds her against his chest with one arm and positions the blanket on the floor under her body before easing her back down, cradling her head with his hand and scooping her wet hair to the side so she isn't lying on it. One side of her torn shift has folded open, revealing the alabaster white skin of a softly curved breast and the pink edge of an areola. A large, purple thumb-shaped bruise stands out among the smaller bruises, marring her delicate skin halfway between her nipple and breast bone. Connor clenches his teeth, feeling his hatred for her captors bubbling to the surface again. How could anyone use their superior strength to harm a woman for sexual satisfaction? He reaches for the torn edge to cover her up and notices more discolorations on her breasts showing through the fabric. His hand shakes as he looks down the length of her, seeing more than just her shape through the fabric this time. Her body is covered with bruises, most of them on her arms, breasts and the tops of her thighs. The marks on her neck seem recent, carrying a more reddish purple tinge than the others. Connor lightly touches the ones over her throat, knowing only the lowest of monsters could have done such terrible things to a woman. The one nasty bruise on her face has darkened into a dusky shade of purple and caused more swelling along her jaw and split lip. He doesn't want to think about the places he can't see as he flips the folded piece of her shift over to cover her. Anger fills his heart at such injustice and he directs it into being productive.

Connor reaches for his belt, takes his tomahawk out of its loop and places the handle into the woman's cold palm, curling her slender fingers around it before wrapping the blanket over her. He kneels by her feet and rubs her lower legs and ankles to get circulation back in them. Her skin is ghostly pale and icy cold. There is a deep, lengthwise slash on the sole of her left foot that is still seeping dark blood onto the floorboards. The fire is roaring, making Connor uncomfortably hot but he wants to make sure the woman's feet aren't frozen. Her whole body resumes its spastic shaking as it tries to regenerate her massive heat deficit. She moans hoarsely and moves her head. Within a few more minutes, she is trying to withdraw her feet from him. Connor decides that she is showing enough pain response that her feet didn't freeze and leaves her alone to wake up. He pulls the blanket down over her legs and brings a pillow from his bed for her, gently lifting her head and sliding it under, her teeth chattering so hard he can feel it through her skull. He thinks about cutting the rope off her wrist but then imagines the scene if she wakes up and sees him holding a knife over her. Instead, he collects some medicinal herbs from his travel bag and some cloth rags and starts heating water by the fire. He hears her moan again and when he turns to check on her she is opening her eyes and wincing in pain, still shivering uncontrollably.

Her feet are burning; they must be buried in hot coals for them to hurt this badly, especially the left one. Her body is so cold she can't stop trembling and her teeth chatter loudly in her head. Opening her eyes, she realizes that she is wrapped in a blanket and she is lying inside a cabin. In a panic, she thrashes herself to a sitting position, pain shooting through her back and feet. The blanket falls off her shoulders, allowing her cold, sodden hair to hang down her back as she pants in terror. That Indian man, what was his name? Connor? He is crouched by the fire watching her. Moving her hands to touch her clothing, she finds it wet but still there and the hatchet rests against her leg. She grabs the handle in her hand and squeezes it. Her hair drips water and it sticks to her arms, making the blanket damp around her. The man continues to silently watch her as she pulls the blanket back up and wraps it tightly around herself while fumbling to hold the hatchet. Her shivers come in powerful waves.

"You are safe here," Connor says to her. His eyes glow brightly in the firelight.

"When you warm up more, I will need to clean that gash on your foot." He returns his attention to poking at some things in a bowl of water by the fire. The wind rattles against the windows across the room from her, the sound merging with the crackling of the fire. Looking around, the woman observes her surroundings. The log cabin they occupy isn't very big; it's a single room. The only access door is to the left of the fireplace where she is sitting. There is a window on the other side of the stone chimney. Opposite the wall with the fireplace is a large bed centered against the rear of the cabin. To the left of the bed is a chair and some open space; to the right is a small shelf that connects to an entire row of low shelves along the adjoining wall filled with various household items, a few books and not much else. Above the shelving are two small windows spaced evenly on the wall. The fourth wall opposite the shelves has a small table with an unlit lantern on it centered along the windowless wall. Two chairs sit by the table, one pushed in and the other at an angle facing the fireplace. It's a sparse living place but it is clean and well kept, unlike the previous cabin she had spent time in.

After a few minutes, Connor gets up and ignites a piece of kindling, brings it to the table and lights the lantern. When it is glowing brightly he carries it over and places it beside her ankles. He sits down and crosses his legs by her feet, moving the bowl of water closer. Looking at her, he gestures to the bowl.

"These are herbs in warm water for cleaning your wounds and to help you heal but I have to touch you to use them." Connor starts slowly reaching towards her legs and she lets him take her feet up across his lap. He uses his hand to bend her legs at the knees and then scoots himself forward a little more. His brow creases as he leans to the side and examines her left foot by the light of the lantern. The burning pain has faded and it only hurts when he touches the slash on her foot. His hands and the rag he is using feel overly hot on her cold skin as he washes the dirt from her foot and raw ankle. She tries to hold in her pain but she still flinches when he wipes her wound with the rag. She watches Connor as he lightly holds her foot and ankle in his large, dark hands. There is a scar on his right cheek just above the scratches she gave him earlier. He looks over at her from time to time as he is working and now that he is cast in brighter light, he doesn't seem to be as heavily featured as the few Indians she had seen before.

He finishes cleaning out her foot and puts some warm, steeped leaves on her wound, wrapping her foot tightly in rags. The pressure hurts at first but the pain resolves into stinging as her foot becomes warmer. He picks up her right foot, briefly inspects it and gently cleans it before letting it back down again. After renewing the water and herbs in the bowl, Connor leans towards her and she panics at his unexpected approach, falling backwards onto her elbows and grimacing in pain. The hatchet falls off her lap and clangs against the wooden floor loudly.

"I just want to see your wrists," he says quietly as he holds his hand out to her. The woman reaches her right hand to his and he takes it to gently pull her back up into a sitting position again. His hand is warm and despite the revulsion she feels at his physical contact, the heat on her skin feels better than the cold. She tugs the blanket up over herself with her left hand while Connor turns her palm up and switches her hand into his left, his fingers across the back of her hand and his thumb over her palm. Tilting her hand back slightly, he plucks at the knotted, wet rope still tied around her wrist.

Blue veins show through her raw, nearly transparent skin, the dark scratches that mar the underside of her forearm standing out and appearing almost black. Her hand is freezing and the tremors of her shivering body transfer through her arm to him.

"I cannot untie this. I need to cut it." He picks up a small knife that she hadn't seen before and brings it towards her wrist. She hisses and pulls her hand away but Connor keeps his hold on her, turning his body and extending his arm to match her movement. When all she accomplishes is pulling him closer to her she stills.

"I am not going to hurt you." He meets her frightened eyes and hesitantly, she lets him draw her hand back. Carefully, he slides the blade under the rope and cuts it off with a sawing motion. When he releases her hand she retracts it quickly to her body and pulls the blanket more fully over herself as she tries to settle her nausea.

"I told you I will not hurt you." He puts the knife at his side again and gathers up the length of rope, tugging it out from under her leg and tossing it into the fire where it sizzles and hisses before curling orange in the flames and burning to ash. He holds his hand out again and she slowly extends her arm to him so he can clean her cuts and reddened wrist with the warm water. Though his hand is large enough to completely cover hers, his touch is light. He reaches higher with the rag and cups the inside of her elbow in his hand, holding her fingers gently in his other as he softly wipes her forearm scratches with a pulling motion towards her wrist. The water stings her arm but the warmth permeates her skin and sends tingles up her arm. Each time he runs the cloth down her arm, more dried blood and grime come off, revealing her pale skin and horrid bruises. She is shocked at how filthy she is, not having noticed it when she had been in the clutches of those men. She is less hesitant when he finishes and gives him her other hand more willingly. He smiles at her encouragingly and repeats his gentle ablutions. When he is done he shifts her legs off his lap and looks at her.

"Your lip is cut. I would like to look at it." She doesn't move or speak so Connor takes the bowl of water and the lantern and moves up towards her side slowly. He sits back on his heels and reaches for her face with his left hand. She slightly shakes her head and turns away.

"Please, let me look at you." She turns her face back and allows him to reach the rest of the way toward her and lightly pull her swollen lip down with his thumb to examine the cut. He lifts the rag with his other hand, squeezes it over the bowl and brings it towards her face but she grasps his wrist in her hand, stopping him. After a moment, she relaxes but keeps her hand on his wrist as he brings the rag to her face. She flinches when he places it on her lips, holding it so it only covers the bloodied portion. He cups the uninjured right side of her face in his left hand and she meets his eyes.

Connor's face is close to hers and he can almost smell the fear that emanates from her constantly. The hand holding his wrist trembles and he admires her willpower. Her neck is rigid with tension, she is breathing shallowly and he knows she wants nothing more than distance between them yet she is allowing him to hold the cloth against her. When he starts to dab at her lip she tightens her grip on his wrist but relaxes again after a moment. Once the cut is clean, he softly wipes the blood from her chin and down her neck but when he nears her collarbones she suddenly pushes hard at his wrist, twisting her head away from his hand. He leans back away from her.

"I will not touch you anymore." He gets up and opens the cabin door to empty the bowl. When he returns to the fire he refills it with warm water and places a new cloth within her reach.

"If you wish to clean up more, you may. I will prepare something to eat." Gathering the other items, he takes the lantern and leaves her alone while he goes to the back of the cabin and pulls open a hidden door on the wall beside the bed. He stays back there for some time and she can hear him moving things around. Painfully, she shifts her body until she is kneeling facing the fire and lowers the blanket off her shoulders. She uses the rag to finish washing her face but avoids her swollen lip, as it feels raw from Connor's attention. The remaining blood crusted to her neck comes off easily and she carefully wipes down her upper arms. Warmth radiates into her sore muscles and she pulls her wet hair to the side and holds the rag to the back of her neck for a moment before running it down her chest and under the torn edges of her shift. Her shivering seems to be letting up and she closes her eyes and lets the heat of the fire warm her face while listening for any sign of the man coming back. Her eyes feel gritty from exhaustion and tension.

Connor stops at the doorway on his way back into the cabin and watches as the woman presses the rag to her neck. She has dropped the blanket from her shoulders and as she continues to wash he can see the full length of her back facing him. Her shift is ripped in several places across her back, and one rip in particular that traverses the length of her torso diagonally is steeped in blood that has stained its way to her waist. He hadn't seen how deeply her skin was cut by the whipping she had gotten when he first saw her at the cabin. Reddened skin and bloody gashes are visible through the tears in her shift, especially the big one. The slash starts at the top of her right shoulder and travels in a wide arc down to her left hip. Her skin isn't torn along the entire length of the slash but enough of it is that it must be incredibly painful for her to move at all. No wonder she couldn't tolerate contact to her back. The woman suddenly becomes very still and then starts feeling for the hatchet by her side. She was probably listening to the noises he was making so he rattles the things in his hands and shuffles among some items on a shelf before casually walking out and shutting the door behind him with his foot. The woman pulls the blanket back up as he walks toward her and he makes sure he gives her a lot of room when he starts cooking up some boiled grains. She turns herself so she is facing him again as he cooks and draws her knees upwards under the blanket.

"You killed the one with the whip?" Her hoarse voice startles him and he looks over at her.

"Yes. No one will ever hurt you like that again." Nodding, she turns her face towards the fire, making it clear she is done talking. Connor seasons the grains and pours hot water into a mug, sprinkling dried chamomile and a few weak pain relieving herbs into it, hoping that the tea will help her relax. He puts the mug and a bowl of the grains with a spoon down next to her and then retreats to the table to eat. He watches her while he eats and is relieved when she eventually takes up her mug and sips from it, holding the warm stone vessel with both her hands, sometimes just touching it to her face. She watches him out of the corners of her light eyes like a trapped, feral creature, reflections of the fire moving in them. Hunger gets the better of her at last and she exchanges the mug for the bowl. Even eating appears painful for her because of her cut lip and bruised cheek and she chews slowly and carefully, holding the bowl close to her face and balanced on her knees.

Connor gathers up the cooking and washing items and tidies up the small cabin while the woman continues to slowly eat, her eyes following him everywhere. He considers waiting to take the empty bowl from her but decides to just give her space. At the back of the room he takes off his shirt, gets into his bed and snuffs the lantern. After a long time the woman places her mug and bowl to the side of the fireplace and peeks over her shoulder at him. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. Gingerly, she lies down on her side and tucks her knees up tightly to her chest. The hatchet clinks quietly on the floor as she shifts it where she can grasp it easily. Her arm moves out from under the blanket and it looks like she is wiping a tear. Connor doesn't blame her for crying after what she has been through and he is shocked she had not earlier.

The woman can't help but wonder what will become of her. Am I truly safe, as he claims I am? Tears sting her eyes and she wishes she were dead instead of the prisoner of this man now, no matter how kind he seems to be. He killed three men this night and he could easily kill her as well.

She eventually falls into a fitful sleep, plagued by whimpers and starts. Connor gets up and takes her bowl from in front of the fire. He longs to pick her up and put her in his bed so she can sleep on a soft mattress instead of the hard floor but it would only terrify her and cause her more pain in the process. Instead, he returns to the storage area and rummages in his accumulated collection of hides and furs, pulling out a large bear hide. He drapes it over her with the fur side down to help her stay warm. Her hair has mostly dried and her dark curls and waves are in a pile along her back and over her shoulder. Returning to his bed, Connor restlessly thinks about the strange way his day has ended.