Whitefire by Fern Michaels

to die.
    The bathwater was cooling; it was time to get out and snuggle into the warm bed. Lord, she was tired to the very bone. If only she could have one good night’s sleep, one without the Mongol invading her dreams.
    It was not to be. As soon as the dark lashes were stilled and her breathing was regular, a dark-eyed man on horseback raced after her as she spurred Bluefire onward. She thrashed about in the big bed, the quilt sliding onto the floor from her frantic movements. He was gaining; closer and closer he came, until he was abreast of her. His dark eyes were laughing and his white teeth gleamed in the early night. He wore a brown sable cape, which he threw to the ground as he reached out a long arm and dragged her from Bluefire’s broad back. She fell to the ground, and from somewhere she felt her fingers touch a heavy wooden pallet. He stood over her, laughing, his stance arrogant, his face amused and mocking. She struggled to her knees, the mallet raised, ready to strike. A bloodcurdling scream ripped from her mouth as she tumbled from the high bed onto the softness of the quilt. She rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, and was not surprised to see it come away wet.
    Her heart beating madly, she gathered the covering around her and walked to the huge oven. Katerina secured the quilt around her and lay down on the felt-covered floor, her eyes wide and staring.
    The following morning Katerina and Stepan worked diligently to finish their tasks, scurrying from hut to hut performing their specific duties.
    Laughing and teasing each other, they walked to the end of the road. Suddenly Katerina commanded, “Sh-h-h, listen. Do you hear them?”
    The boy tilted his head toward the open steppe. He motioned that he heard nothing.
    â€œListen again,” she urged, “the hoofbeats are louder now, you should hear them.” Again he turned his head, intent on listening, his face brightening and a broad grin emerging, acknowledging that he, too, heard.
    As the horses thundered closer, Katerina stood directly in the middle of the road, her hands on her hips, her legs astride, waiting for her father. Moments later, Katlof came thundering down the road, majestic atop Snowfire, almost running her down. She didn’t move a muscle. Her father brought the horse to an abrupt stop.
    â€œSo, you’re alive after all!” he shouted, looking down at her fiercely.
    â€œYes, I’m alive, and so are Wildflower and Bluefire!”
    Katlof dismounted and stood at the side of his horse, a stern look on his face. “Then come here, baryshna, and give your father a proper welcome home.”
    As Katerina ran toward him, the stern look dissolved, a broad smile crossing his face. As they embraced each other, her father said, “In my heart I knew you were alive. Why didn’t you send word? Why didn’t you return?”
    â€œBecause, Father, I haven’t forgotten your scolding, and I hadn’t forgiven you until this moment. I was angry with you so I thought I would let you spend a week agonizing and praying for me,” she said coolly. “I thought it would do you good.”
    â€œHa!” roared Katlof. “Spoken like a true Cossack,” he said, as he gave her a hearty slap on her back. “A true Cossack, that’s my Katerina!” he chuckled.
    A Cossack rode up and led Snowfire away as Katlof and Katerina walked toward their summer dwelling together. “So, Daughter, tell your father what you have been doing this past week.”
    â€œYou’ll see.” She laughed as she led him through the town toward their hut.
    Before they entered, Katerina looked out across the endless plain and thought, the steppe and I have something in common—it goes on endlessly, as does my nightmare. She knew then she would never be free of the Mongol. A feeling of panic began to engulf her. She silently pleaded, God, dear God, help me! “Please!” she