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Page 112
Thorn did not let his internal quaking show. He demanded, "Let her go, Nahtana." This woman, no matter how foolish, no matter how brave, meant nothing to him, of course. Still, he needed no further acts of cowardice on his conscience.
There were already far too many.
Thorn looked at her, at the loose, wavy hair that only reached her shoulders wound in Nahtana's fist. Those eyes, green as the forest, stared at him beseechingly.
Damn those eyes! She was depending upon his help yet again. He had no help to give.
Foolish woman, he thought, for relying on him.

The pain wracking her scalp was unbearable. Mariah couldn't ease it by staying still. She couldn't even do so by following along with the Indian toward the woodsnot that she wanted to do that.
But she had little choice, not with his hand wrapped in her hair.
Not with that knife he waved in her face. A knife with a long, long blade. A blade that appeared sharper than a razor.
Trying to still the small, terrified noises she heard issuing from her own throat, she dared a glance at Thorn, her only chance at salvation. His face was impassive. She prayed that was simply his way of dealing with the terrible situation. If he showed emotion, might things go worse for her?
And staring at the knife being brandished menacingly in front of her face, she was sure they could.
Was her recollection of the screenplay correct? Was this man supposed to be Thorn's ally?
If so, this was a heck of a way to treat a friend's employee.
Tears spilling from her eyes, she dragged her feet as much as she dared as the Indian led her by the hair toward the shadowed darkness of the forest. "Please." Her voice sounded squeaky, but she tried to keep it calm. "Don't hurt me. Just let me go."
"No!" the Indian shrieked, giving her hair a sharp yank that stabbed a new agony through her head. She cried out. Maybe he understood some English, for all the good that did her.

 
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