My Savage Heart (The MacQuaid Brothers) by Christine Dorsey Page A

to end the discussion. Caroline sensed rather than heard any disapproval from the women, except for Mistress Andrews. She definitely made a disparaging noise, though Jane tried to cover the sound by bustling to her feet and announcing they had enough beans.
    It wasn’t until after dinner when Sam returned from his cabin with a violin that anyone spoke to Caroline except to ask her to pass the cornbread. “You mustn’t mind Mistress Andrews,” Jane said as she draped her arm around Caroline’s shoulders. “She hasn’t been the same since the Indians massacred her children.”
    The sun had set, and except for the low-riding moon, the only light came from the bonfire. Caroline watched the shadows dance across Jane’s broad, open face for a moment before she could speak. “They killed her children?”
    “Scalped them.” Jane shook her head. “Finding your young ones like that ’twould do strange things to a body.”
    “When...” Caroline swallowed. “When did this happen?”
    Jane tapped her foot to the sound of the lively tune Sam urged from the violin. “’Twas years ago, in Pennsylvania, where we come from. The Iroquois.” She shuddered. “They’re animals. Not like the Cherokee... at least not like they used to be.”
    “What do you mean?” The children except for the older ones were abed. The fiddle music faded and off in the night Caroline heard the lonely cry of a wolf.
    “There have been some raids. My man is worried, but then you know how men are. I can’t believe the Cherokee would hurt us. I mean ’tis often they stop here to trade on their way to Charles Town. Still.” She took a deep breath, her thin breast rising and falling beneath the worn flowered stomacher. “I remember what it was like up north, the French always inciting those heathens.”
    “Is that what’s happening here?”
    “What?” Jane seemed to pull herself from deep thought. “Nay,” she finally said. “If we have Indian trouble here it won’t be the Frenchies that cause it. ’Twill be our own fault. At least that’s what my man says.”
    Before Caroline could ask what she meant, Jane’s husband, John, came over and grabbed her hands, pulling her up to join the other couples for a reel. To the tune of “Lord Alvemarle’s Delight” Jane and her husband joined hands and danced down the line.
    Their garments might be rough and faded and their dance floor, trodden earth, but as Caroline clapped her hands, she realized these dancers were enjoying themselves as much as any she’d ever seen at her parents’ balls. Perhaps more. Their laughter seemed to push out the boundaries of the small civilized settlement. It made Caroline more comfortable with her journey into the wilderness.
    Until she spotted him.
    Raff sat, leaning against the Flannerys’ cabin. His sprawl was loose-limbed and lazy with long legs spread, arms crossed. He appeared relaxed and at ease... until she noticed his eyes. Even with the space separating them, she felt their intensity, dark and fiery, directed at her. Swirling skirts, dancing legs and wisps of smoke from the bonfire intermittently blocked her view of him. But whenever the way cleared, it was obvious his gaze hadn’t moved. Neither had hers. Despite the distance, Caroline felt closer to him than she ever had.
    The pull was undeniable, and powerful. She wanted to turn away, but couldn’t. In her mind’s eye she saw him coming to her, reaching down, pulling her to her feet. Touching her.
    But he didn’t move. Nor did she. When the last strains of the fiddle drifted out over the sea of trees enclosing them, Caroline realized she’d forgotten to breathe. She did so now with a gasp as Jane flopped down on the bench beside her.
    “I declare,” she laughed, fanning herself. “Dancing sure can wind a person. But look at you, sitting there as calm as can be, and you just come from England. Teach us a new step.”
    “Oh, I really don’t know any,” Caroline insisted, but Jane was not