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dangerous lurking on a day when the birds sounded so unconcerned. |
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Then why, suddenly, did she have a sense of foreboding? |
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Foolishness, she told herself. Still, her breathing was shallow as she hurried to catch up with her companion. |
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They reached the stream. It meandered off through the woods, gurgling and pulsing over its shallow, rocky bed. She spotted a small fish darting between rocks, and then another. |
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"Ici." René handed her his bucket. "Here." He stepped a few paces into the woods, and Mariah saw a bush with deep green leaves from which clusters of lime-colored berries hung. |
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"I've never eaten gooseberries before," she said, trying one. Its tangy taste resembled a plum's. "Wonderful!" She began picking them and putting them into a bucket. |
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"I am going to catch the bigger fish for supper," René said, heading again for the stream. Mariah followed. "There is a deep spot in the water close by." He began to walk upstream, then turned back. "I will not go far. You must call if you have a need for me." |
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She nodded, then watched with dismay as he disappeared around a curve. She had a need for him to stay near, but she said nothing. Women of this time weren't sissies, even if they'd recently been in danger. |
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Where was Thorn? She didn't see him trying to keep her out of trouble. |
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Then again, why should he? |
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She'd call René if anything, however small, bothered her. |
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Anything but the uneasiness that sent pulsing jitters through her chest. Had something happened in the screenplay that foreshadowed something now? She couldn't remember. Still . . . |
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What about that Indian? Where was he? |
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Her throat had gone dry. Staring apprehensively in the direction in which René had gone, she knelt and cupped her hands in the stream. It was cold! It soothed her poor hands, though, still sore after yesterday's laundry ordeal. |
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She refused to think of Thorn's caress. The way he had guided her, taught her to use the quill pen. Kissed her . . . |
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