Savage Illusions

Bryce ga­ve Char­lot­te anot­her qu­ick glan­ce. "You don't le­ave this wa­gon un­less it's at my si­de, do you he­ar?" he sa­id sternly. He re­ac­hed back in­si­de his wa­gon and grab­bed a small, pe­arl-han­d­led pis­tol. "If I don't get back to you, and you and our child be­co­me thre­ate­ned by a red­s­kinby God, wo­man, sho­ot to kill."

Charlotte flin­c­hed at the sight of the fi­re­arm, ha­ving ne­ver li­ked them. But ha­ving no cho­ice, she to­ok the pis­tol and held it tightly wit­hin her grip as she wat­c­hed Bryce le­ave the wa­gon, wa­rily ap­pro­ac­hing the de­ad per­son. His pis­tol was drawn, and the ot­her men we­re ar­med with rif­les.

Bryce crept slowly to­ward the hand, and when he saw that the­re was no one the­re, re­ady to po­un­ce on him, he swung his pis­tol back in­to its hol­s­ter and hur­ri­ed on­ward.

When he se­pa­ra­ted the lo­wer bran­c­hes of the bus­hes and got a clo­ser lo­ok, he was stun­ned at what he dis­co­ve­red.

"It's an In­di­an wo­man and a chil­dI'd say no mo­re than a few ho­urs old," one of his com­pa­ni­ons sa­id, mir­ro­ring Bryce's very tho­ughts. "And, Bryce, the wo­man is de­ad."

Bryce knelt down be­si­de the wo­man and clo­sed her eyes, then gently pic­ked the child up in­to his arms. It was ap­pa­rent that the mot­her had at le­ast ma­na­ged to cut the um­bi­li­cal cord, but she had su­rely di­ed be­fo­re she had a chan­ce to cle­an­se the child, or per­haps even fe­ed it.

The dark eyes of the baby lo­oked up at Bryce trus­tingly. Then the child be­gan to cry sof­t­l­ya cry of hun­ger…

Without fur­t­her tho­ught, Bryce car­ri­ed the tiny thing to the wa­gon.

"Oh, my lord, it's a baby," Char­lot­te sa­id, gas­ping.

"The mot­her is de­ad," Bryce sa­id sadly, hol­ding the baby out so that Char­lot­te co­uld see the in­fant bet­ter. "The child is a girl. Isn't she just too be­a­uti­ful, Char­lot­te?"

"Oh, yes. So very," Char­lot­te sa­id softly, the baby's cri­es te­aring at her in­si­des. "But the po­or thing. Su­rely she's hungry." She glan­ced down at Kirk, then at her milk-fil­led bre­asts, so he­avy she knew that she had mo­re than eno­ugh milk for two chil­d­ren.

She tur­ned a smi­ling fa­ce to her hus­band. "Let me fe­ed her," she mur­mu­red. She re­ac­hed a hand out to Bryce. "Ple­ase, dar­ling? If not, she may die

."

"For su­re she wo­uld," he sa­id. "But let me gi­ve her a qu­ick was­hing. I'll bring her to you then."

The ot­hers had co­me to the­ir wa­gon and we­re wat­c­hing. Bryce to­ok the child to the back of his wa­gon. Ta­king warm wa­ter from a can­te­en, he bat­hed the baby, then to­ok her to Char­lot­te, han­ding the child up to her af­ter she had pla­ced Kirk com­for­tably ac­ross her lap.

Giving Char­lot­te the ne­eded pri­vacy, the men wal­ked away and sto­od in a gro­up, dis­cus­sing the find.

Charlotte ope­ned her dress to the tiny baby girl. Te­ars ca­me to her eyes when the child be­gan suc­k­ling from her bre­ast. She ga­zed with won­der at the child's be­a­uti­ful cop­per skin and tiny to­es and fin­gers. It ca­me to her that the child was now mot­her­less and that per­haps Kirk co­uld ha­ve an in­s­tant sis­ter. She was not su­re if she co­uld ha­ve any mo­re chil­d­ren. It had ta­ken so long to fi­nal­ly ha­ve her ado­rab­le Kirk…

Bryce still sto­od be­si­de the wa­gon, wat­c­hing the baby nur­sing. "I don't know what to do," he sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. "If we try and find the vil­la­ge from which this wo­man ca­me, we might so­me­how be ac­cu­sed of the wo­man's de­ath. I don't think I want to tra­de my scalp for the chan­ces of trying to find this wo­man's pe­op­le."

"And the child?" Char­lot­te sa­id, her he­art po­un­ding at the pros­pect of get­ting to ke­ep the child as her very own.

"We've got to ke­ep her, Char­lot­te," Bryce sa­id, gi­ving her an easy sta­re. "Wo­uld you mind? It's yo­ur bre­asts that wo­uld be fe­eding her."

Tears ca­me to Char­lot­te's eyes as she ga­zed down at the tiny bun­d­le of joy that still so hun­g­rily fed from her bre­ast. "Do I mind?" she sa­id, slowly shif­ting her ga­ze to her hus­band. "Dar­ling, I co­uldn't le­ave her be­hind, not af­ter ha­ving held and fed her. She'll be our da­ug­h­ter. Kirk will be ra­ised with a sis­ter. We will gi­ve her the na­me that we had pic­ked out sho­uld we ha­ve a da­ug­h­ter in­s­te­ad of a son."

"Jolena?" Bryce sa­id, re­ac­hing a hand to to­uch the soft thigh of the girl child.

"Yes, Jole­na," Char­lot­te sa­id in a sigh, as she aga­in wat­c­hed the child with ado­ra­ti­on. "It's such a lo­vely na­me to fit such a be­a­uti­ful lit­tle girl."

"Then it's set­tled," Bryce sa­id firmly with a nod of the he­ad. "She's ours from now on."

He tur­ned and lo­oked to­ward the bus­hes be­ne­ath which lay the lo­vely In­di­an wo­man. He had not ta­ken much ti­me to lo­ok at her, be­ing too wor­ri­ed over the child's wel­fa­re. But in one glan­ce he had se­en her ex­qu­isi­te lo­ve­li­ness and knew that so­me In­di­an war­ri­or wo­uld mo­urn de­eply over such a loss. If Jole­na to­ok her lo­oks from her mot­her, this new da­ug­h­ter of his wo­uld one day be just as ex­qu­isi­te!

"I can't bury her," Bryce sa­id qu­ickly. "I must le­ave her out in the open for her pe­op­le to find her. Her so­ul wo­uld not rest if she was not gi­ven a pro­per In­di­an bu­ri­al ce­re­mony and pla­ced with her pe­op­le's de­ad. We ha­ve no cho­ice but to le­ave her li­ke that, in­s­te­ad of hi­ding her in a gra­ve in the gro­und."

"How so­on do you think she will be fo­und?" Char­lot­te as­ked, wor­rying abo­ut ani­mals fe­eding on her.

Bryce kne­aded his brow tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly as he lo­oked in­to the dis­tan­ce. "It is sa­id that the In­di­an wo­men go far eno­ugh away to ha­ve the­ir child so that it ta­kes three days' tra­vel on fo­ot to get the­re," he sa­id. "On hor­se­back, the way the war­ri­or hus­band will tra­vel when he co­mes lo­oking for her, it will ta­ke only one day. So he sho­uld be he­re I'd say at le­ast by to­night."

"That me­ans that we most cer­ta­inly must be abo­ard that ri­ver­bo­at be­fo­re he ar­ri­ves," Char- lot­te sa­id, her vo­ice wary. "Can we truly, dar­ling? Can we ma­ke it?"

"I'll see to it," Bryce sa­id, clim­bing abo­ard his wa­gon. He le­aned out and sho­uted for ever­yo­ne el­se to be on the­ir way, then tur­ned to Char­lot­te with he­avy eyes. "I ha­te li­ke hell dep­ri­ving a man a lo­ok at his new­born child, but on­ce he finds his wi­fe de­ad, he will be­co­me en­ra­ged eno­ugh to kill an­y­t­hing and an­yo­ne in his path. We ha­ve no cho­ice but to ta­ke his child and ra­ise her as our own."