Rebel:. Zoe Archer
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THOSE EYES
They burned him and would leave an afterimage branded into his mind. Never had Nathan seen such eyes, the hue of clouds just before a storm. It wasn’t their color so much as the depth of feeling he saw within them that seared him. Haunted, hunted. A feral creature, trapped within the body of a striking woman. That creature called to him, even more than the wilderness outside. A kinship there. Something dark inside of him stirred and awakened as he gazed into her eyes.
An animal within himself. He’d always felt it, fought it down every day. White men thought Indians were animals. He would prove them wrong, even if it meant brutally tethering a part of himself. But that hidden beast recognized her, saw its like within her. And demanded.
The Blades of the Rose
Warrior
Scoundrel
Rebel
Coming Soon
Stranger
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
REBEL
The Blades of the Rose
Zoë Archer
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For Zack:
giving me strength
when I need to rebel
Contents
Chapter 1: Encounters at the Trading Post
Chapter 2: Solitude Shattered
Chapter 3: Transformation
Chapter 4: The First of Many
Chapter 5: Astrid Awakened
Chapter 6: Rapids
Chapter 7: Crossing the Boundary
Chapter 8: The Earth Spirits’ Judgment
Chapter 9: In Pursuit
Chapter 10: By Firelight
Chapter 11: The White Lake
Chapter 12: Alliances and Reunions
Chapter 13: The Solitary Hunter
Chapter 14: A Battle of Bones
Chapter 15: Gaining Perspective
Chapter 16: Vows
Chapter 17: Flight, Fight
Chapter 18: The Assault
Chapter 19: A Most Unusual Battle
Chapter 20: The Battle Ends, the War Begins
Epilogue: Hunting a Story
Chapter 1
Encounters at the Trading Post
The Northwest Territory, 1875
The two men tumbled over the muddy ground, trading punches and kicks. A sloppy fight, made all the more clumsy by a surfeit of cheap whiskey and punctuated by grunts and curses. Nobody knew what the men were fighting about, least of all the men themselves. It didn’t matter. They just wanted to punch each other.
They rolled across the soggy earth, gathering a few interested onlookers. Bets of money, beaver pelts, and tobacco were placed. Odds were six to one that Three-Tooth Jim would make pemmican of Gravy Dan.
No one counted on the lawyer.
Jim and Dan, throwing elbows and snarling, careened right into the path of Nathan Lesperance, actually rolling across his boots as the attorney crossed the yard surrounding the trading post. Lesperance calmly reached down, picked up Three-Tooth Jim, and, with a composed, disinterested expression, slammed his own fist into the big trapper’s jaw. By the time Jim hit the ground, Lesperance had already performed the same service for Gravy Dan. In seconds, both trappers lay together in the mud, completely unconscious.
Lesperance sent a quick, flinty look toward the onlookers. The men—hardened mountain dwellers, miners, trappers, and Indians who had seen and survived the worst man and nature could dole out—all scurried away to other buildings surrounding the trading post.
Sergeant Williamson of the Northwest Mounted Police looked down at the insensate bodies of the trappers. “That wasn’t necessary, Mr. Lesperance,” he said with a shake of his head. Two young Mounties, Corporals Hastings and Mackenzie, hurried forward to drag the trappers away to the makeshift jail. “My men could have seen to the disturbance. Without resorting to fisticuffs.”
“My way’s faster,” said Lesperance.
“But you’re an attorney,” Williamson pointed out.
“I’m not your typical lawyer,” said Lesperance, dry.
On that, the sergeant had to agree. For one thing, most lawyers resembled prosperous bankers, their soft stomachs gently filling out their waistcoats, hands soft and manicured, a look of self-satisfaction in their fleshy, middle-aged faces. Nathan Lesperance looked hard as granite, hale, barely thirty, and more suited for a tough life in the wilderness than arguing the finer points of law in court or from behind a desk.
Williamson said, “I’ve never met a Native attorney before.”
Lesperance’s gaze was black as chipped obsidian, his words just as sharp. “I was taken from my tribe when I was a child and raised in a government school.”
“And you studied law there? And learned how to throw a mean left hook?”
“Yes, to both.”
“You must have a few stories to tell.”
A brief smile tilted the corner of Lesperance’s mouth, momentarily softening the precise planes of his face. “More than a few. I’ll tell you about the time I took on three miners making trouble in town—the only gold they found came out of their own fillings. But later, over a drink.” His smile faded. “I came here all the way from Victoria, so first let’s get this business taken care of.”
No Native had ever talked to Williamson this way. For one thing, Lesperance spoke flawless English, better, even, than most of the Mounties at the post. And there was no deference or hesitancy in Lesperance. In his words and eyes was a tacit challenge. Williamson had no desire to take up that challenge, lest he wind up lying in the mud, unconscious. And that seemed the least of what Lesperance seemed capable of. He wasn’t an especially big man, but no one could doubt his strength, judging by the way he filled out the shoulders of his heavy tweed jacket and by the facers he’d landed on both Jim and Dan.
“Of course, Mr. Lesperance,” the sergeant said quickly. He tugged on the red wool tunic of his uniform. “Please follow me. The Mounties keep a small garrison here. We have our own office, which serves as our mess, too, and a dormitory.” He gestured toward two of the low structures clustered around the main building of the trading post. Both the Mountie and the attorney began to walk. They passed fur trappers, clusters of Indian men and women, some white men in well-cut coats who could only be representatives for the Hudson’s Bay Company, here to buy furs, and horses and dogs. The Indians stared at Lesperance as he walked, no doubt just as amazed as Williamson to see a Native with his hair cut short, like a white man, and wearing entirely European-style clothing. Lesperance didn’t even walk as a Native might,