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If she went with him, she would be dead. Or perhaps better off dead. Didn't Indians in this time keep woman captives as slaves? Some married them, she thought, but would that be any better than slavery? |
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It was one thing to feel compassion for abused Native Americans in the abstract. It was something else altogether to be here in the past with this angry, threatening man who was hurting her. |
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Much too soon, they were at the edge of the woods. Every muscle in her body tensed and trembled. Her head hurt unbearably, reminding her of her earlier headache. The one that had made her wonder if she were lying somewhere in a coma, dreaming this entire escapade. |
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She knew better now. This was reality. Somehow, thanks to Pierce, she had wound up in the past, living a grotesque parody of the wonderful screenplay she had read. |
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One that put her, far too often, into danger. |
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She recalled only too well his words when she'd been chased by those two boat characters. No one should rely on him. |
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Better yet, how could she help herself? |
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Quite suddenly, the tug on her hair ceased, and the Indian screamed something unintelligible. As she was released, her resistance to the pulling bounced her onto the ground with a thud that left her behind aching. She glanced up. |
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The Indian was clutching the bloody wrist of his right hand, the one that had been waving the knife. |
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The knife was on the ground beside Mariah. No, two knives, the second as long-bladed and lethal-looking as the first. She grabbed for them both as the Indian disappeared into the forest. |
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"Where did this come from?" Drawing herself slowly to her feet, she waved the second knife as Thorn approached, his gun aimed in the direction in which the Indian had gone. He'd saved her again, and in her relief she wanted more than anything to throw herself into his strong arms, be held against his hard chest, be comforted by his embrace. |
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