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Page 114
But he was the real Thorn, not the screenplay version. He would resent the contact, reject her touch. And so, shuddering, on rubbery legs, she remained standing where she was.
"You see, Miss Walker," Thorn said calmly, lowering his rifle, "there is value after all in learning how to fell a rabbit with a knife."

Still trembling inside, Mariah forced herself to get back to work. Kneeling on the hard ground, she scrubbed René's shirts in hot, hot water that hurt her stinging hands. She barely watched what she did, glancing around frequently. Would that Indian return?
Surely not. His hand must hurt, and he undoubtedly feared Thorn and his rifle.
But wouldn't he want revenge? She bit her lip uneasily.
Her hair hung in damp, sweaty coils beside her face. At least she still had italong with a renewal of her headache. But at least now she was sure of its source.
There was no use dwelling on what she couldn't help. But if she'd had any residual doubts that she was in the past, they'd vanished with that Indian's yank on her hair.
Pierce had sent her here. "To right a grievous wrong," he'd said. It had been his voice haunting her dreams all those years.
But why?
And what was the wrong she was to right? It had to have something to do with the screenplay.
She'd hated the ending before: Thorn's death. Now that she'd met him, the duel seemed even more of a travesty. Even if he wasn't the Thorn of the screenplay, she couldn't bear the thought of seeing his life cut short in such a needless way.
Was she here to prevent it?
Beginning to shake her head, she saw a pair of moccasins beneath the legs of leather trousers. Gasping, she rose to her feet.
She relaxed immediately. It was Thorn. "You're jumpy, Miss Walker," he said. He carried a roll of cloth beneath one arm.

 
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