Fury's Love. Tess Mathews
didn't know but she did know she must get out. Fear tried to take her over once more, but something inside of her changed and she did not give in to the fear. Belle plopped down on the rough wood floor and began kicking the door. Over and over, she kicked, pounding the door with all the strength she could muster, burning the bottom of her feet and sending jagged shockwaves of pain up her legs, but still, it wouldn't budge.
"Come on, Belle," she ordered herself, "you can't give up. You can't let Mama and Papa down."
She sucked in a deep breath then harnessed all her fear and anger into one decisive last blow. Crack, wood splinters flew, and the door flung open.
A light haze of smoke drifted in the foyer. Belle began to cough. She tore a piece of her dress and tied it around her face, using it to cover her nose and mouth. The fire began to crawl from the study to the foyer. Belle could feel the heat on her skin, and a part of her wanted to quit, but determination pushed her forward as she crawled on her hands and knees to find her parents.
Come on, Belle, come on, she repeated to herself, you can do this; you have to do this for Mama and Papa, keep moving.
She reached the parlor. Even though she could feel the heat growing behind her, Belle continued to crawl. The smoke grew thick and clouded her vision. She bumped into something—her mother.
"Mama! Mama!" she cried but heard no response. Belle placed her head gently on her mother's chest and cried from the root of her heart.
"Papa!" Her eyes searched though the smoke. Then she spotted a dark figure. She crawled over to find the dead body of her father.
Her petite body shuddered as grief wrenched at her soul again. Tenderly, she kissed her father's face.
Uncertain if her own will to live spurred her on or her father's last wish that she live. Whichever it was did not matter; Belle was going to get out.
The smoke thickened as the heat grew unbearable. Belle needed to get her bearings. She tried to gauge where the fire spread. As far as she could figure, the flames crossed the foyer and now were licking their way to the parlor. Precious time ticked away, demanding she find a way out. Her burning eyes darted around, trying to discern an escape. She found herself disoriented, lost in the thickening smoke. Belle could not fathom which way to go, and even with her face covered, she could feel the smoke burning the back of her throat, trying to choke the life out of her.
"I'm sorry, Papa, I know you want me to live, but I don't know the way to go. I am lost, Papa."
A childlike instinct for security spurred her to reach for her father's hand. Her fingers began to wrap around his but were hindered by an object still clutched in his grasp. She slid her hand down the smooth metal. It took a moment for her to identify the fireplace poker. Did he try to use it as a weapon? Running her hand down the length of the poker, she reached the end and a sense of hope washed over her as she realized it rested on the edge of the fireplace.
Hope jumped in her heart. She found a guide to help her find her way in the smoke. If this is the fireplace, then Papa's chair is only a few feet away. She grabbed the poker and stabbed the air, and after a few attempts, she hit something solid.
Reaching out, she touched the soft leather of her father's chair, a landmark to the route of her escape. She crawled from landmark to landmark. The farther Belle moved from the fire, the thinner the smoke became, making her path to the door clear. When she reached the kitchen, she stood and stumbled her way to the door and flung it open. Clean air hit her face. Belle removed the protective cloth and drew in a breath but dropped to her knees in a coughing fit. The coughing subsided and she pulled herself to her feet. She stumbled along on flimsy legs until she reached the old oak tree on the hill behind the house. She crumpled to her knees at the sight of her blazing home. Belle buried her face in her hands and wept. When she could weep no more, she raised her head, and gazing down at the palms of her hands, she saw traces of her parents' blood mingled with the dampness of her own tears. She turned her eyes up at the flames consuming her home and her parents.
The searing pain of grief ripped through her, burying deep within her being all the qualities that defined Belle. A coldness grew inside of her as the flames reflected in her eyes. At that moment, Belle died with her parents, and only Fury remained.
Chapter 2
Hank Black Hawk woke with a feeling of dread. He credited his Indian blood for his sense of premonition. Ain't nothin' gonna happen; you're just feeling old today.
He studied his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned his shirt. The majority of his shoulder length hair shone coal black, invaded by only a few streaks of grey. He joked, claiming the grey to be premature, inherited from his white mother. Although, her hair was a glorious shade of pearl, while his was gunmetal grey. Hank tried to ignore the concern he recognized in his own dark eyes, but from the center of his being, he sensed a calamity approaching.
"Good morning," he said to his wife Little Dove when he came into the kitchen.
"Good morning, old man," she teased," sit down. Your breakfast is almost ready."
"All right, old woman," he retaliated and kissed her cheek, knowing full well Little Dove's age never overshadowed her beauty. Not a hint of grey could be seen in her silky black hair which hung loose, draping to her small waist. Her soft sable eyes were what first drew Hank to her. Like her husband, she was labeled a "half-breed". Not fully accepted in the Indian or white man's world, they became each other's world.
He pulled out a chair but stopped short of sitting when he heard a weak rapping at the door.
"Who could that be this early in the morning?" asked his wife
"I don't know. You stay back," he ordered as he reached for the rifle hanging over the fireplace.
He raised his rifle so he could see the sights and then slowly reached and swung the door open.
Black Hawk dropped his rifle at the sight of Belle leaning on the door frame. "Belle!" he reached out and caught her before she fell to the floor.
Her hair, which only last night had decorated her head like a crown, now hung in a disheveled mess. Scratches and soot covered her beautiful face. Her dirty, tattered dress, scorched by the fire that had consumed her home and smeared with her parents' blood, no longer resembled the beautiful gown sown by her mother.
"Belle!" he shouted, seeing her on the verge of fainting. "What happened? Where are your parents?"
"Dead. They killed both of them," her weak voice whispered. "They killed them and burned the house."
Hank's heart panicked, his thinking muddled refusing to believe what he heard.
"Hank, lay her on the bed in the boy's old room," said Little Dove, her voice bringing him back to reality.
Hank lifted Belle, cradling her in his arms as he carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. Little Dove began examining her for injuries.
"I've gotta go and see what happened." Hank's strong voice trembled.
"Hank, get the doctor and the sheriff."
Little Dove's words broke through the haze in Belle's mind.
"No, please…no doctor, no sheriff."
"Why do you not want the doctor or the sheriff?" Little Dove queried.
"No, no, no…please!" Belle thrashed in the bed.
"Calm down, honey," Hank tried to comfort her."
Little Dove rose to her feet.
"Hank, we must get help."
"Yes," said Hank, "but first, I'm going to see what happened, and then I'll go to the sheriff. I won't tell him Belle is here. I want to talk to her first. Do you believe you can treat her injures?"
Little Dove came from a family of medicine women and possessed a great knowledge of healing. "Yes, I do not see any serious injuries, but