Wild Fire (Book II)

Eyes Like Mine

      Dutch shoved the tent flap aside with his elbow clinging tightly to the thrashing Emma in his arms. He struggled with her over to the cot, wrestling her down to the bed and pinning her beneath his thick chest. Emma tossed her head back and forth in despair, the only thing she could move under the weight of the holding outlaw. "Emma, EMMA. It's ME! It's Dutch!" She continued to fight him, pleading for him to leave her alone, to let her go. He held her still with the heaviness of his body and reached up with both hands taking her face and settling it forward to look at him in the eyes. "EM–MAA!" he commanded her name, drawing her eyes to meet his. She stilled, panting, and searching his pleading face. Wide soothing thumbs stroked the apples of her cheeks as he nodded down at her.

     He removed his hat so she could see him more clearly, never leaving her gaze. "See? It's me. You're safe darlin, it's Dutch." She blinked up at him as if waking. His deep melodic voice circled her ears pulling the fight from her. "Dutch?" she whimpered. A bright grin pulled across his face. "Yes, dove, it's Dutch. Don't be afraid." Her eyes were still wild, looking around the room in confusion. The visions of Clayton had disappeared, leaving her lost and confused.

     Dutch had removed one hand and was stroking back the hair from her sweaty brow just hushing her calmly as he held her. "I...I saw him..." She began, unable to hold back the tears from spilling across the big man's fingers. Dutch shook his head in denial closing his eyes at her briefly, then meeting hers again with deep sympathy bubbling under the brown gaze "No darlin. Clayton is dead. He can't hurt you anymore, remember? What you saw were my very mischievous boys. And as roguish as they may be, they would never hurt a pretty little hair on your beautiful head."

     The uncertainty in her eyes burned him to his very core. He lifted a little from her. "I'm gonna sit up and get these ropes off ya ok? You trust me?" She shook her head timidly.

     He raised above her pulling his knife, holding out his other hand in surrender, and first cut the rope from her ankles then took her wrists in his hands. "Don't move darlin." he said softly, sliding the sharp blade under the bind and pulling it through. He held her palms in one hand, replacing the knife, then took her wrists under his fingers, rubbing the red raw skin softly in tiny circles beneath the rough pads of his thumbs. A weak smile surfaced his lips while he noted the pulse slow under his moving thumbs.

     "I'm sorry." was all she could say. She didn't know what was wrong with her. Why she kept seeing the things she did. Why she so desperately felt the need to run. But this man, this kind forgiving man, kept bringing her back and anchoring her to him. His very essence surrounded her in a blanket of protection and adoration that Emma just could not quite understand. "Don't be." he said, raising one of the bruised rings of her wrists to his lips and placing a warm kiss upon it.

     She watched him. She could see the gears turning in his head, and it worried her. She didn't know what those pulled brows meant. He looked up at her suddenly from his thoughts, a promising smirk pulling at his lips. "How bout we take a little trip? Get out of camp for a few days? Leave all these naughty boys by themselves a while, and just breathe a little. How's that sound?" He had already let go of her, replacing the hat on his head and standing. At once he began to busy himself around the room, taking a bag and stuffing things into it that she couldn't quite see. "I don't think..." She began, but he turned on her, kneeling and placing a silencing finger to her lips. "Oh, but I do." His hands took hers again as he knelt there, rubbing the angry marks around her wrists once more. The little red lines inwardly infuriated him. "You stay here. I mean it, Stay Put. I'm gonna talk to the boys, and we'll be gone. Do not refuse me Emma. I have brought you something more appropriate to wear outside this tent. You understand me, don't you? Do not leave this tent unless I am at your side." It was a demand not a request she realized. She nodded, snuffing the rebuttal back behind her tongue. "That's my good girl." He leaned forward placing a furred kiss on her forehead, snatched up a book from the desk shoving it into the bag, and made for the tents exit.

     As he walked away something slipped from the book he had snatched and floated lazily to the floor. Emma looked after him but said nothing. Once he was gone, she leaned taking the slip of slick paper between her fingers and bringing it up to her face to study it. On the white paper read a name :

Greta Van der linde.

     Emma flipped what she now knew as a photograph over, and looked at the woman on the front. She was beautiful. Dressed in all blue, she sat by a window holding the very book Dutch had snatched from his desk and stowed with him. Her delicate features looked chiseled, almost like living art frozen in time and stamped onto the paper. Emma could just make out the blues of her eyes as they turned down towards the pages. Golden blond hair was pinned up behind her head and Emma could tell it was long and lustrous when let down across her shoulder. She was truly something to look at. She flipped photo back over and looked at the bottom of the picture where Dutch's own handwriting scrawled across it in thick black ink. Mother, we did not terry well here, but I will forever love you. Your Son, Dutch

     As she studied the picture Emma could feel her mouth falling open. Her eyes widened just a little, and the sound had left her throat. Greta was the perfect mirror of herself. Same small face, same blonde bound curls, and same brilliant blue eyes. "She's me..." Emma heard herself say out loud. Her hand covered her mouth, and she looked back at the tent entrance swallowing back the sword of anxiety that threatened to rip through her.