Captivated (Cutter's Creek Book 18) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Vivi Holt

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Of Peaks and Prairies

  Also by Vivi Holt

  About the Author

  Historical Note and Author's Remarks

  CAPTIVATED

  Cutter’s Creek (Book 18)

  VIVI HOLT

  www.viviholt.com

  Also by Vivi Holt

  Orphan Brides Go West

  Mail Order Bride: Christy

  Mail Order Bride: Ramona

  Mail Order Bride: Katie

  Mail Order Bride: Holly (coming soon!)

  Cutter’s Creek

  The Strong One

  The Betrothed

  Cherished

  Season of Love

  Paradise Valley

  Of Peaks and Prairies

  Winds of Paradise

  For an updated list of my books, please visit:

  www.viviholt.com

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  Copyright © 2017 by Vivi Holt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  September 1868

  Near the Bozeman Trail,

  Montana Territory

  Maria Holloway shivered as the pony dashed through the woods and away from the trail. Tears streaked her cheeks, and she moaned into the wind that whipped her face. A strong, brown arm wrapped tightly about her middle, and another held fast to the reins as they galloped along an unmarked path, leaping over fallen logs, and darting between the thick trunks of the evergreens that reached skyward to form a dappled canopy overhead.

  They’d killed Fred. Her darling Fred. Fresh tears burst from her reddened eyes and trickled along the paths forged by their predecessors. The cries of the natives while they’d attacked the wagon train had stopped. The men rode in silence now, their faces impassive as they made their way south. Only the staccato rhythm of hooves on soft earth, punctuated by her moans, broke through the silence of the woods.

  A stab of terror sliced through her, ripping her breath from her chaffed throat and she struggled against the arm that bound her, pushing back as hard as she could and hitting it with closed fists. “Let me go! Let me go!” she shouted. But the chest behind her back was immovable and the arm ignored her blows.

  One of the other men, riding close by, did glance her way as she fought. He had an impressive display of beads woven into a thin headband and down the sides of his deerskin pants. He rode on a brown and white pony, proud and silent, and she shuddered at the sight of him. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut, as if to block out everything around her.

  But the image of her husband, a long knife being pulled across his bearded throat, leaped out at her, and she opened them again with a cry.

  What did they plan to do with her? Where were they taking her? Her thoughts swirled, dark and fearful. Surely if they intended to kill her, they would have done it. Perhaps they planned to ransom her, or make her their slave. Or maybe she’d be eaten! She’d heard enough stories of Indian brutality during her time on the trail. The thought made her shudder and she pressed her fingertips against her eyes, hoping to push the image of her husband’s murder from her mind. “Oh God, help me!”

  She had to keep her wits about her. Already they were miles from the Bozeman Trail and her friends. She knew they were nowhere near civilization, and fast putting distance between them and the closest town, Cutter’s Creek, where she and Fred had planned to set up a homestead. Her heart lurched at the realization that all their dreams were now lost. Every step the horse beneath her took carried her further away from Cutter’s Creek, civilization and anyone who might care about her.

  She wished, not for the first time, that she’d never let Fred convince her to take this journey, never listened to his talk of adventure and pioneering. They’d had a good life in London together – he an accountant, she the daughter of a middle-class financier. She’d loved to shop, dance and attend soirees. But that wasn’t enough for him. Fred insisted they set off for the New World and take every adventure life offered.

  And now he was dead and she was stuck on the back of a scraggly painted pony; kidnapped by a group of wild men who likely intended to kill her. Or worse.

  A fresh wave of sobs overcame her and she bowed her head in her hands. She couldn’t die here. She’d never even wanted to come here. Mother and Father would have no idea what had happened to her. When her regular stream of letters dried up, they’d soon fear the daughter they’d so lovingly raised had simply disappeared from the face of the earth.

  They reached a clearing where a brisk, thin creek bubbled and chattered over smooth rocks. For the first time since their journey began, she became aware of her senses. She smelled the sweat on the horse’s coat, felt the brush of the crisp air across her bare neck, heard the quiet breath of the man behind her. Her own whimpering reached her ears and surprised her, since she’d imagined herself silent.

  The hand resting on the pony’s withers in front of her lifted and the horse slowed, then stopped. All around her, painted warriors emerged from the thick woods and dismounted, snatches of low conversation and bursts of laughter drifting through the clearing.

  For the first time she saw the face of the man who’d ridden behind her for hours, holding her tightly in place with his muscled arm. He dismounted, nodded and said something to her in his native tongue, his black eyes regarding her coldly. He reached up with both hands and grabbed her around the waist. She gasped as he lifted her from the pony’s back and placed her feet gently on the ground beside him. Then he turned and strode away without a backward glance.

  Another man handed her a canteen made from animal skins and waited while she gulped down the refreshing water, her body aching for more even as she swallowed. Soon she was satisfied and handed it back to the man, who hurried away without a word. The rest of the group seemed to be ignoring her, and she wondered if they’d even notice if she simply walked away. But where would she go? She had no idea which direction to take, and it would be days before she reached Cutter’s Creek even if she chanced to find the right path.

  Still, it was worth a try, since she didn’t know yet what the men intended to do with her and the uncertainty had her stomach in a knot. The warriors sat or squatted in a circle near the center of the clearing, eating and joking. She turned her back on them, unwound the reins of a nearby pony from a tree branch and slowly walked away, with no way of knowing if they were witnessing her escape.

  She
winced when the pony’s hooves crunched on the dried pine straw that coated the ground, breaking the silence of the woods as she led the animal from the clearing and the green grasses behind them. She stopped and looked at the horse, wondering how she might climb onto its bare back without a stirrup to stand in.

  Just then, she heard a step behind her. She spun around, coming face to face with the warrior who’d been her companion over the miles between the Bozeman Trail and the clearing. “You frightened me!” she cried, her hand covering her mouth.

  His eyes narrowed. He pointed back toward the clearing.

  “Fine, yes. You want me to go back. I understand.” She wasn’t surprised she’d been stopped, but the hopelessness of her situation made her eyes smart with tears. What if she never escaped? She’d never see Mother or Father again. She’d never go home.

  She sobbed, then took a deep breath. She wouldn’t let them see her tears, wouldn’t let them know how afraid she was. The thought crossed her mind that her only real hope of survival, if there was any, was for her to cooperate and make as little trouble for her captors as possible. Maybe if she behaved and made them like her, they’d let her live. If she slowed them down or made too much noise or continued attempting to escape, she was certain they’d kill her without a second thought.

  She handed the reins to the man and stumbled back to the clearing with him striding behind her. She wondered how long they’d traveled – it had been a blur for her, and the landscape looked the same every way she turned. She should have paid more attention. If she was able to escape, she’d never find her way back if she didn’t keep watch and make an effort to memorize landmarks along the way.

  The man indicated she should sit on a fallen log. She complied, tucking her skirts around her legs as she sat. Then he wandered off, leaving her surrounded by the other braves.

  Careful not to draw attention to herself, she cautiously scanned the faces of the men. There were a dozen of them, ranging from youth to middle age. One in particular caught her attention, the one she’d spied riding alongside them earlier. He sat apart from the group and drank slowly from a canteen while the other men chatted and laughed together, sharing strips of cured meat between them. He stared off into the distance, leaning back against a smooth boulder with a sigh

  Who was he? His clothing would suggest he was someone of importance in the group, but he didn’t appear to be in charge. His face was smooth and brown and his hair hung in two shining braids, one on each side of his head. His shoulders were broad and his thick chest well-defined. He wore no shirt, only buckskin pants, low on his waist and decorated more grandly than the others’ clothes with brightly colored beads.

  He seemed to sense she was studying him and turned his head to catch her. His black eyes found hers, and she saw pain in them before he looked away a moment later.

  Her guardian was soon back and ushered her to his pony. He helped her up, then climbed behind her before offering her a drink from his canteen and a thin piece of cured meat. She took the meat and shoved it between her teeth, biting off a big piece with a shake of her head. It was tough and had a strange flavor she’d never tasted before, like venison but different somehow. Her stomach objected at the idea of food, and she covered her mouth to stifle a great heave. Her hand shook, and she closed her eyes to gently swallow the meat.

  Before long they were off again, moving now along a well-worn trail through the woods. They passed through the creek at a shallow crossing, frothy water licking at her boots as it bubbled in rapids over the smooth stones beneath its surface. A hillside loomed, and they struggled up it along a path that seemed to go up almost vertically - her companion dropping nimbly to the ground to walk beside her as they climbed. She leaned forward over the horse’s mane and prayed she’d have the strength to hang on as it lumbered upward with jerking leaps. It slowed its pace near the top, panting heavily from distended nostrils and walked the last few feet, its head hanging low. Her guardian seemed not to feel the strain, his breathing regular and his face relaxed as he jogged alongside the pony. After a short rest at the summit, he climbed back onto the pony, and adjusted himself behind her, his hands once again taking hold of the reins in front of her.

  The sun was sitting golden on the horizon now and the woods were thrown into shadow as it inched downward. She wondered if they’d travel through the night. She felt the warmth of the man behind her and shuddered, pulling herself as far away from him as she could. When they descended the other side, he pressed against her and she felt a flash of anger, wishing she could run a blade through him for what he’d done – what they’d all done to her and to Fred.

  Her back ached, her legs felt as though they might detach from her body at any moment and her head throbbed with a dreadful ache. Just as she felt she could go no further on the bony back of that little pony, the group stopped once more. This time when they alit, she saw they were making camp for the night. The men wandered around, finding suitable places to lie down. It seemed they weren’t even going to allow themselves the luxury of a fire that night, probably for fear of pursuit. She shivered at the thought of an entire night spent on the cold ground with no fire to warm her back. The journey from east to west with Fred had been hard at times. Living in a wagon, wondering whether their food supplies would see them through, listening to the calls of wolves and other wild animals as they circled their tents at night. And yet these people seemed to live in a way that made the covered wagon seem almost luxurious.

  Her captor pointed to the ground, and she settled down as best she could in the pine straw and dry leaves. She pressed her hands together and laid her head on them, watching as he sank to the ground close by, his back against the trunk of a tree. He watched over her like a sentry and seemed to have no intention of sleeping, though the others were half asleep already. She’d have no chance of escape that night, though she dreaded the idea of running through the dark woods alone in any case.

  Sleep came quickly, but she tossed and turned on the cold hard ground. Her captor and another man took turns watching her, and each time she woke she glanced about to see one of them seated close by, staring off into the darkness, apparently lost in thought, or pacing back and forth beneath the sliver of moonlight that filtered through the leaves overhead and bathed the party in a pale, eery glow. Just the sight of them set her heart pounding and covered her goose pimpled skin in a cold film of sweat. Every time she stirred, she forgot where she was for a few moments, and wondered whether Fred had stoked the fire or if she should rise to do it, before the realization of where she was, and that Fred was gone, thundered into her foggy brain and fired a bullet of piercing pain through her chest. Then she’d settle back down again onto the cold, hard ground, and sob quietly against a soiled handkerchief held in one dirty, frozen hand.

  Chapter Two

  When morning arrived, Maria sat up and rubbed the sleep from her weary eyes. Each of the warriors rose from his bed, weapons in hand or strapped against ankles and thighs, ready to fight at a moment’s notice if need be. The horses had been corralled with a rope fence nearby and were grazing on tender grass along the edges of a meandering creek where the woods broke apart, allowing the first of the day’s sunlight to thread fingers through the darkness.

  Birdcall filled the silence as the men began their preparations to be on their way, none speaking above a whisper. The man she’d ridden with the previous day led her to the creek and waited while she did her morning ablutions on its shores. She splashed the frigid liquid against her face and gasped as it woke her entirely, washing her fatigue and the fragments of dreams that had haunted her fitful sleep away in an instant.

  As she lifted her pinafore to wipe her face dry, she saw the tall, proud man from the previous day on the opposite bank. He’d obviously risen earlier than the rest and looked to be returning on foot from some sort of scouting mission. His gaze rested on her for a few moments, taking in her form as she squatted by the side of the creek. His eyes narrowed as they met hers, and she fel
t as though they might burrow directly into her soul. It sent a shiver through her and she sucked in a quick breath.

  Then he leaped across the creek and jogged quickly up the bank to join the rest of the group, the first shafts of sunlight glistening on his muscular shoulders and shiny black hair. She wondered if she’d ever get used to the way these men dressed, seeming to have no regard for modesty or warmth — though some of them wore furs and leather coats, this man seemed not to feel the cold. Would the women folk have a similar disdain for clothing? And would she ever know? The group were purposeful in the direction they rode, but were they returning to their camp, or taking her somewhere else? And what were they planning to do with her? She couldn’t get the question out of her mind, it was becoming all consuming. Her instinct to survive had risen to the forefront of her thoughts, and her grief worked its way back into the dormant recesses of her mind to emerge unexpectedly in quiet moments that shocked her senses and fill her eyes with tears.

  After a meager cold breakfast, they were on their way, with Maria tucked in front of the same man as the previous day. It seemed he was to be her guard for the duration of their journey, and she almost felt grateful for it. He appeared kind enough compared to what she’d first believed he’d be. Even when she’d tried to escape, he hadn’t punished her for it.

  Her rear was bruised after the hours of galloping the previous day, and she winced with every step the pony took. But before long the discomfort diminished and she was able to focus on the landscape as they passed it by, hoping to commit as many landmarks to memory as she could.

  Late in the morning, they emerged from the woods into a wide-open plain that stretched southward as far as the eye could see. Tall prairie grasses swayed under a gentle breeze, and the landscape was dominated by gentle rolling hills. The group followed the lowest path they could, winding around the base of each rise, hidden from view. She turned about in place, trying to gauge where the mountains were, and how they looked from her new vantage point in case she should find an opportunity to return along the same route. The peaks loomed up behind them, and her guardian tapped her shoulder, pointing forward. She spun back about with a scowl. Maria had no way of calculating how far they’d traveled. But it seemed to her to be a good many miles, perhaps as many as thirty or forty.