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water cascaded over her.

CHAPTER TWO
    E MERGING FROM THE SHOWER fifteen minutes later, remarkably refreshed and respectably if awkwardly clad in the red flannel shirt, which reached her knees, Whitney discovered that White Eagle seriously intended to give her lessons. He had shed his own muddy shirt, and his broad chest gleamed a golden bronze as he sat crossed-legged at the hand-carved coffee table, his attention focused on an assortment of books and maps. Hearing her approach, he patted a spot beside him on the deerskin rug and smiled. “If you’re going to meet with old Jonathan Stewart and tell him how to run a swamp and improve the lot of the Indians, you’d better go in with a little background information,” he told her, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “And since you seem to like muck walks in the rain, we’d better start with the environment!”
    Hiding another flush by furiously toweling her wet hair, Whitney sank down beside him, annoyed at the erratic thumping of her heart caused by the proximity of his bare flesh. Her lashes fluttering over the soft skin of her cheeks, she nonchalantly agreed. “All right, White Eagle, I may seem a fool to you, but I am eager to learn. And I really do intend to do all that I can to help the Seminoles and the Micco—Micco—”
    “Miccosukees,” Eagle supplied, his grin broadening. Handing her an expensive new hardcover book, he added, “This will explain the different tribes that make up the Seminole Nation. You can take that and read it at your leisure. The information is important, but it won’t save your life if you do any more swamp walking.”
    “I can’t take your book!” Whitney protested, ignoring his taunt. To an Indian living in the Glades in a one-room cabin, the cost must have been prohibitive!
    White Eagle shrugged. “Return it to Stewart, then. Now—on to venomous snakes.” He opened another book and pointed to the four large pictures of the creatures that spanned the pages. “These are the four fellows you have to worry about in this part of the country—the coral snake, the eastern diamondback, the pygmy rattler and the water moccasin. These guys”—he pointed to the black moccasin—“are the ones that might have gotten you tonight. They are swamp dwellers and highly aggressive. The coral snake has the most toxic venom, but its bite is tight and it can only sink its fangs into areas of flesh such as that between the fingers and toes. You won’t see many of the diamondbacks if any; drainage has sent them north. The pygmy is numerous, but he’s a hammock boy; he prefers the high pine lands.”
    A shudder rippled through Whitney as she listened to his cool dissertation. She had been a far greater fool than she had imagined! The thought of one of the vipers finding her bare feet in the muck was numbing. Swallowing, she glanced sheepishly at White Eagle, who had grown silent. His unnerving crystal gaze was speculatively upon her, and she hurriedly looked back at the book. “I can see them in the pictures,” she said quickly, “but what do I do if I run into a snake outside? Ask him to hold still so that I can study his markings and compare them to the book?”
    “No,” Eagle said quietly, refusing to respond to her nervous sarcasm. “You watch out for any snake. Most of them will give a nasty bite if aggravated.” Flopping open another book, he resumed his brisk, educational tone. “Alligator here, crocodile there. Notice the difference in the snouts. Both can be found in the Glades, alligators in the freshwater, inland regions; crocodiles in the outlying, mangrove island regions—that’s coastal. Both can be nasty and aggressive, but if left alone, they tend to go their own way.” Turning pages slowly, he went on to point out the Florida bear, panther and deer, mentioning a few traits of each. By the time the book snapped closed, Whitney had become deeply immersed in the pleasant drone of his voice and was sorry that her lesson