A quick glance around the small cabin did little to reassure Catherine.She found a tin dipper and a lantern half-filled with oil on a benchbeside the rickety table. But there was no food or medicine.

For a moment she wished for Mona, the medicine woman. But Mona was wounded. Jillico had stayed behind to care for her. Patrick's treatment was up to her. And the only thing she knew about doctoringwas watching her mother wash wounds with wine and apply hot compressesto loosen phlegm in the chest.

She cast a worried glance through the open door. Beyond the porch shecould see the small inlet of water surrounded by tall grass. There was something strange about the color of the water; it looked pink. She moved out the door and onto the dock, trying to understand what she wasseeing.

Water lilies. Hundreds of pink water lilies.

The pond was edged with satiny green leaves and large pink blossoms.

Beyond, great green trees lined the clearing, their branches bentgracefully like arms reaching out to clasp one another. She had the absurd feeling that they were sentries, holding out the world,protecting this place.

Dark blue dragonflies darted about while fish jumped out of the waterthen fell back, leaving widening circles on the surface. The flatboat was still bobbing against the small dock.

With a silent thank-you to whoever had found this lovely spot and builtthe hut, Catherine hurried to the boat. In the darkness she hadn't been able to discern what she'd been leaning on. Now, in the daylightshe peeled back the blankets and let out a cry of dismay.

What she'd hoped were barrels of foodstuffs were in fact gunpowder,pistols, bags of lead balls and knives. The only edible substances inthe pirogue were a cask of coffee, a sack of dried beans, and a jug ofale.

She took the food and one of the knives back to the cabin. At least she'd found ale. It wasn't the wine that her mother used, but it oughtto work. And food, if they could survive until the hard beans werecooked. There was plenty of water and from the look of the pond,fish.

First a fire. She'd boil some water and wash Patrick's leg and examinehis wound.

A more careful search of the hut produced an iron pot, two tin cups anda flat tin pan, all of which she washed in the pond.

The fire took some thought. Without matches or hot coals she had to improvise. She picked dry grass and fashioned a mound over which sheplaced a scattering of small twigs. Two flat rocks had been left on the hearth by the cabin's previous occupants. She couldn't be certain,but she thought that one of them was flint. Hoping that she wasn'tabout to burn down their shelter, she struck one stone against theother, eliciting a spark that quickly caught the dry grass and blazed up. Moments later the pot, filled with water, was hanging over herfire.

Keeping a constant watch on Patrick, she considered what she would doas the fire heated up and the water began to simmer. The loincloth barely covered his male parts, and it took great concentration to keepher attention on her preparations. He'd been so exhausted that he'd slept through all her moving about the cabin. Catherine used a small amount of the hot water to wash any remaining touch of the Spaniardsfrom the knife. They'd already harmed Patrick enough. There was no ball in Patrick's leg, but she'd have the knife ready if the fleshneeded searing.

Emptying the pouch in which the lead balls had been stored, she droppedit into the boiling water. Once it had boiled long enough to be clean,she used the tip of the knife to fish the steaming cloth from thewater.

Perspiration matted her hair and ran down her face. Already thehumidity of the day had soaked into the very air she was trying tobreathe. Hurry! Hurry! She took the steaming cloth, dropping it andchart ising herself for her tender flesh. Once more she pulled thecanvas bag from the water and let it drip until she could take it inher hand and clean the wound.

Patrick's eyes opened. He flinched but made no sound. Once the wound was clean, she poured the ale into its angry flesh. This time, Patrick swore.

"What the bloody-?"

"You've been wounded," she answered, mopping the perspiration from herforehead with her lower arm.

"I know, it isn't the first time. What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm trying to kill the poison."

"And me along with it. What's this?" He grabbed the cask from herhand.

"It's ale. I'm using it as medicine."

"Well, you're putting it in the wrong place," he said, rising on oneelbow and taking a long swallow. Catherine would have reprimanded him for wasting the ale, but she was so glad to see the light back in his eyes that she swallowed herprotest.

Patrick didn't swallow his.

"What happened to my clothes?" He was looking down at his half-nude body in disbelief.

"That's what you wore to Simicco's little welcome party. Don't you

remember?"

With a groan, Patrick fell back to the bed, Catherine catching the jug just as it slipped out of his fingers.

"I.

thought--I hoped it was another of those hallucinations. It's thatdamned drink they fed us. I can't seem to clear my mind of it. ""Not a hallucination, Patrick. It was real. You're just suffering from lack of sleep and whatever they gave us. Don't you remember

Captain Lopaz's men attacking the Indians?"Lopaz. It was all coming back to him. The sound of guns firing, thefire, the smoke. Then came the memory of their flight.

"Where are we?"

"A little deserted cabin. I don't know how you found it, but you did."

His lips quivered as if he were trying to smile.

"Not me, darling, it was the little people who showed us the way. Watch

out for the rainbow," he said, but the levity was short-lived, the last part of his words slurring as his head fell back wearily.

"I'm still so tired. It was a hallucination, wasn't it, Catherine?

That night, in Isabella's bed? "

"What do you want it to be?"

He'd asked the question, but she wasn't certain he heard her answer.

Either that, or he feigned sleep once more to avoid the truth. A second trip to the pirogue and Catherine brought the beans and coffeeback to the cabin. Cooking had never been her responsibility at homebut she knew enough to heat fresh water and start the beans to boiling.Fishing was totally foreign, but she had watched the slaves fish, andother than taking the creatures from the hooks, it didn't look toohard.

A more thorough examination of the exterior of the hut revealed nofishing traps. A length of cord hanging from the rafters would make afishing line. But a hook proved to be a bigger problem. If only shehad a pin from her hair or-She glanced down at the garment she waswearing. It had been decorated with beads and shells of all shapes andsizes. They were attached to the cloth with tiny lengths of animalhide through holes painstakingly made in the tops of the shells.

Quickly she examined the shells until she found one with a naturalcurved shape. With the striking rock from the hearth she managed tohone the tip of the shell to a reasonably sharp point.

From a moist loamy spot beneath a rock she pulled a fat wiggly worm.

She apologized to the worm, took a deep breath and impaled it on hermakeshift hook. From the platform she dropped the hook in the waterand waited, her mind racked with concern for Patrick, who was stillsleeping inside.

The pond lay still in the midday sunshine, sending up shimmering wispsof heat. She wondered who had built the cabin. Had some man and woman thought to make a home here? Why had it been abandoned?

If it weren't for Patrick's injury this would be a beautiful place tobe together. She sighed, knelt and wiggled her fingers in the water torinse off the grains of black dirt.

She hadn't known what to expect when a fish swallowed her hook, but thejerk threatened to topple her into the lake or pull the cord from her grasp.

"Oh, no, you don't," she shouted and jerked, slinging the line over herhead. The protesting fish shot through the air and landed against theside of the hut with a resounding thud.

The laughter that followed reached out and grabbed her heart. It was a welcome sound, as was the sight of the figure leaning against thedoorframe.

"Patrick, you're up."

"First it was pigs. Now it's flying fish. Ah, Catherine darling',what am I going to do with you?"

Chapter Thirteen la trick cleaned the fish while the beans cooked. A second iron potwas unearthed, scoured and filled with water for coffee. A green branch laid across the rocks at either end of the fireplace became aspit for the fish Catherine had caught. By the time the fish was done, she'd managed to scrub the rickety table clean enough for them to eat on. She sat on the bench while Patrick sat on the bed with his foot propped up on the bed frame. They atewith their fingers from the shared tin plate.

"That song you're humming," he said, "what is it?"

"Song?" She hadn't realized she was making a sound, but the merry tunecame immediately to mind."It's called " A Frog Went A Courting. " I sang it for Isabella's guests."

She waited for him to say something about her singing for Isabella's guests, but he didn't.

"I like it," he said instead.

"I like watching you bustle around. You always look so pleased with

what you're doing."

"I guess I am, here. Always before, Amanda was in charge. I didn'tmind then. I was still a child and Cad- en hill was still home.""And it isn't home any longer?""First Amanda married, and then Mama. Suddenly I didn't belong anywhere.""And not belonging bothered you?""No, not really." She cut an eye at him and grinned."By then I knew that I was waiting for you. So I managed.""And I let you down.""You couldn't help that. And besides, we're together now.""But this cabin isn't what I promised you.""I don't care. I like being with you. It doesn't matter where. Is this what it will be like when we're married?"

Patrick slowed his chewing. He had refused to allow himself the luxury of thinking about what marriage to Catherine would be like.

Socializing with people like the Cadens was fine, on a temporary basis,

but becoming a planter and living as one of them had always been afaraway dream. Until Catherine set her sights on him. Watching heraround the cabin made him want to believe it could be true. But the fact remained that he was a wanted man. And until he cleared his name of murder charges, he couldn't think about marriage.

No matter what Catherine said, she deserved a fine house, satin dressesand pert little bonnets with plumes and bows. Not some crude cabin with a dirt floor in the wilderness. Not canvas dresses with fringeand seashell trim. Not feathers in her hair.

Yet she was smiling and happy. She'd treated his wound and caught afish for their dinner. And Catherine Caden, the daughter of a manwho'd advised those who drew up the Declaration of Independence, waseating with her fingers and licking them as if she'd never held propereating utensils.

He liked watching her, with her hair flying free about her face, hershapely legs tucked around the end of the bench, her beaded dresshitting her thighs about midway. There was a spot on her chin and shedidn't seem to care. The beans were only half-done and the fish wascharred on the outside, but he'd never enjoyed a meal so much.

Catherine caught a fragment of fish with her tongue and, with mischiefcontinuing to light her eyes, looked up from beneath a fringe ofsooty-brown lashes. The smile that followed was so provocative that hefelt himself smile in return. Both stopped their eating as they gazedat each other.

"Why are you grinning?" she asked.

"No reason. I just like looking at you."

"And I like looking at you, too," she said, widening her grin.

"But I do think we're going to have to do something about yourclothes.

You're going to look a little odd returning to Natchez wearing aloincloth. "

Patrick followed the line of her vision and shook his head. His garment consisted of two squares of skin, one in front and one in therear, hanging from a cord around his waist. In the village he hadn'tthought much about what he was wearing, but now-"I see what youmean."

"So do I, and a lot more."

"Does it bother you?"

"Looking at your body? Back in Petersburg, Patrick, I tried for weeksto look at your body and you wouldn't let me. Now I have you at my mercy. I can look all I like, and there's not a thing you can do aboutit."

"Hardly seems fair," Patrick observed, giving a doleful look atCatherine's fringed dress.

Catherine swallowed the last of her fish, licked her lips and stood.

"I think a person should always be fair." She caught the bottom of herdress and lifted it over her head, revealing her nude body beneath.

Patrick couldn't speak. His throat closed off as he struggled to fill his lungs with a last greedy gasp of air."Now I'm at your mercy, Patrick. Close your mouth and touch me.""It was you in my bed that night, wasn't it?" he asked tightly."Of course it was.""Why, why would you come to my bed?""Because I love you, Patrick McLendon, and I have no intention of letting you refuse me, ever again."

He'd known Catherine was beautiful, but he hadn't expected perfection.

Her breasts were small and pert, the nipples like delicate pearls

caught by a ray of pink light.