They came to her in a dream. Standing in the opening of an unfamiliar longhouse, their shadows stood as if awaiting her acknowledgment. Pushing back the furs which had kept her warm throughout the cold Canadian night, she left the pallet assuming the two men were in need of the healer. The war between the colonies and England had been vicious. But her people had been favored when after the war George Washington had granted her people, The Onieda, the tract of land in New York State lying next to the border with Canada, for their help during the war. Although the War of 1812 had finally ended last year, it wasn’t uncommon to have injured seamen arrive seeking medical help from her. All knew the Onieda would help if the need arose.
Despite the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, her instinctive need to heal was ruling her. She ignored her surroundings as she pulled on her buckskin coat over her long flannel nightgown, and stomped her feet into her beat up low heeled boots. They’d been a gift from a thankful soldier the past winter. They kept her feet much warmer than anything else she’d tried. She glanced longingly at the soft moccasins next to them, but practicality told her the boots were a better choice for trudging through the snow. When she did look up, everything seemed eerily familiar even though she’d never been inside a longhouse in her life. It was definitely not the same as the rushes and bark covered wigwam she’d grown up in.
“Are thou in need of a healer?” Deftly parting and braiding her hair, she was unaware of their closeness until they were upon her. Her half braided hair fell from her fingers as surprise flowed over her. They were not Iroquois nor were they white men. They were Algonquin.
“We need you.” The taller of the two stepped forward and placed his hands on her coat. Her protest caught in her throat as it slipped off her shoulders at his gentle urging. He leaned forward and inhaled sharply. “You smell of fruit, ma puissance, and good enough to eat.”
She barely had time to notice the beautiful porcupine roach dangling from one of his braids as his dark eyes filled with desire before his mouth covered hers.
©Dakota Trace All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
