Wind Dancer Read Online Free PDF Page B

manners. She is spoiled, I’m afraid. And you, sir?”
    â€œSamuel Holt. Traveling to Kaskaskia also.”
    He shook hands with her brother, who was looking at the big man with the wide-eyed beginnings of hero worship. When Mr. Holt turned toward Quiet Fox, he paused. Isabelle looked back and forth between them. Their guide had gone very stilland did not look Mr. Holt in the eyes. Did they know each other? Samuel seemed to recover first and turned toward her expectantly, as if waiting for her to explain her mystery further.
    Isabelle had no such intentions. Let him wonder … and wait. But she relented enough to give up her name. Reaching for his hand as her brother had, she said, “Isabelle Renoir.”
    She found herself holding her breath as he reached out toward her. His handshake was firm, his grasp wrapping warmly around hers, making her feel small and trapped. She let go, wanting to break the contact, and stepped back from him. “If you are heading to Kaskaskia, then we should travel together,” she said despite her misgivings.
    Samuel seemed to consider her words, then replied in a voice so deep she felt it more than heard it. “Yes.” He nodded. “I think perhaps we should.”

4
    In the aftermath of the storm, the air was mercifully cooler, the light kind and soft with the promise of summer’s twilight. The four fell into line—Samuel leading, the Renoirs in the middle, and Quiet Fox, a brooding frown in his eyes and a tight grip on his rifle, taking up the rear. Julian trailed behind Samuel’s long-legged stride, matching it the best he could with shorter legs and untried lungs, the combination of which quickly put an end to the questions he had attempted to ask Samuel when they started out. It was soon clear to all of them that Samuel moved faster and more efficiently than even Quiet Fox, who seemed to be stumbling along behind them.
    Isabelle studied Samuel Holt with growing interest. He was dressed in the lean manner of the frontiersman, a loose-sleeved, linsey-woolsey shirt hanging with effortless grace from his broad shoulders. A slim cord of leather around his neck disappeared beneath the open collar of his shirt, hiding whatever hung on the end. Honey-colored buckskin leggings clung to his thighs and blended into buckskin boots, like long moccasins that graced his feet and calves. Weapons and ammunition hung everywhereon his person. A long, wicked-looking knife was tied down to his right thigh; another smaller one on his right calf was attached by a scarlet ribbon. A tomahawk was slung from his belt, which also held a water cask. To complete the picture was the Kentucky long rifle grasped like an extension of his right hand and appearing to weigh no more than the powder horn slung across his chest which hung to one side just above the shot pouch.
    She couldn’t pull her gaze from the way his body moved over the land, supple muscle climbing, striding, vigilant and protecting, pushing through the dense marshland in front of them, showing the way. But there was more to this man—some indescribable quality of strength that, for the first time Isabelle could ever remember, made her see him as more than a match for her own abilities. She was shocked by the thought, but instead of resenting him for it, instead of wanting to prove herself against him like any other man of strength she had met in the past, she wanted to trust in it, simply to rest in the knowledge that he went before. She found it … oddly comforting.
    She smiled a little, her breath measured to match her footsteps, pacing her strength for this long endurance race, wanting to impress Mr. Holt. But she also knew that the moment she said she needed a rest, he would stop.
    As they walked, every so often Samuel turned his head as if to judge how his traveling companions were keeping up, and at times his gaze would meet hers. She could sense in his eyes the same feelings she was experiencing,