Something else woke John later in the night; first, a steady beating sound. Then, a furtive scratching, a scraping at the door. In dread, he opened his eyes slowly, feeling his throat constrict in fear on his next intake of breath.
The sounds continued; John realized that the steady thrump was horse's hooves. At first, he thought Good, the horse I loosed just before the storm hit has returned to our camp. He and Pocahontas had arrived here in a horse-drawn cart, intent on taking the game back in the cart. The cart now sat near the side of the cabin they were in, covered in heavy canvas against the snow. The horse had probably survived the storm in the shelter of the forest, and come back now hungry for the bundle of hay they kept in the wooden crate that rested on the ground beside the cabin.
But whatever this horse was doing, it was pacing, bumping the side of the cabin, skittish. And then the other sounds: scraping, rattling. Like someone was trying to get through the door.
No, not as though someone was...Someone was. Ratcliffe. John's heart sank.
The velvet darkness of the several hours they had slept had given way to the twilight just before dawn, bathing the cabin in gray light except for the darkest corners; shadow fell over the side of the bed where the woman he loved slept. Pocahontas' side of the bed was near the cabin wall, and she slumbered on, oblivious to the scratching, rattling and scraping at the door.
Agonizing seconds went by as John tried to decide whether to wake her. She slept a sleep he was not fond of remembering-the sleep of the battered, the frightened. A deep and leaden sleep devoid of dreams, a sleep that struggled to heal the body, the mind and the spirit.
Their camp had grown cold overnight as it was not safe to sleep with a fire going. Hastily John pulled on his shirt and coat, warm socks and boots, slipping in the knife he always carried in one of his boots. The scratching and rattling at the door was becoming more intense by the second, as the determined intruder came closer and closer to breaking the lock.
John swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled on his trousers, counted the seconds. Ten, nine, eight ... He shook Pocahontas gently. "Wake up!" he whispered, an urgent tone in his voice. A sharp inhale of breath, a murmur and a lazy movement told him that he had interrupted her sleep. "Pocahontas, wake up NOW," he whispered, leaning close.
"What?" she said sleepily, and he pressed his fingers to her lips. "Shh! Be quiet. Wake up. Now." In those few hazy moments with his cold fingers pressed to her lips-or maybe her lips were cold because it was cold in the cabin-awareness flooded back to her mind. "Oh, God," the young Powhatan woman whispered. She moved out of the shadow, to sit up in the bed, moving close to him and putting her hands around his shoulders. She was freezing.
They stared at the door in the gray diffuse light. "Pocahontas," he said, sparing her a glance as he reloaded his pistol, "hide by the wall. Under the bed. Now."
"But John-"
"Now," he said with a renewed urgency as the door juddered and shook, little splinters of wood falling down around the cast iron lock and hinges. Pocahontas' eyes widened in fear as she grabbed her woolen overshift that hung on the metal bedframe; she hastily put it on and then did as John said.
She was safely tucked away just as the door burst in.
From where she huddled in the shadows, she watched as John stood calm and confrontational as Ratcliffe invaded their peaceful hunting camp. The floor was freezing, stealing her breath and her thoughts, sending gooseflesh and shivers from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. She swallowed hard and concentrated on breathing as slowly and quietly as she could, wishing she had dragged a blanket down with her.
"You look as though you've been expecting me," the traitorous governor said, an insincere oily smile on his face.
"Expecting you to be dead, more likely." John's tone was flat, angry, clipped and tight. "Yet here you are in my hunting camp. How did you find me?" he let his tone rise a bit on the question, inquiring.
"You don't seem surprised to see me," the man sneered.
"To the contrary. I am quite surprised to have the door broken down as I sleep." Noncommittal, vague-the words of someone used to sticky situations and tight negotiations. John suddenly bent down, fussed with one of his boots. He then kept the hand slightly behind his back.
Ratcliffe's smug expression faltered as he gazed around the cabin.
"Are you looking for something?" John asked, "How would you like a civilized conversation with a little bit of lamplight? And kindly get that pistol out of my face."
Ratcliffe cocked his head; bemused. He sneered. "Fine." He lowered the pistol, but gripped it tightly, ready to fire. He frowned, glanced around the cabin again.
John seized the moment. "Darling," he called loudly, glancing back by the bed, "Would you get us a light?" John called loudly.
The color drained from Ratcliffe's face and the last vestige of smug satisfaction melted from it as Pocahontas emerged from her hiding place. Silently, she struck a match from the box next to the lamp that sat on a shelf; lit the lamp and picked it up.
"Kindly turn up the wick so the light gets stronger; I want him to see your face," John ordered as Pocahontas approached, not taking his gaze from Ratcliffe until Pocahontas was at his side.
In the lamplight, her bruised and cut face looked ghoulish. As Ratcliffe surveyed the damage he had inflicted, he swallowed visibly and grew paler.
"Thank you, darling," John addressed Pocahontas. Now," he said, addressing Ratcliffe. "Take off your cloak and put it on the floor."
Begrudging, Ratcliffe did so; tossing it with contempt. "Now take off that heavy coat, slowly now. No sudden moves."
"But you get to point a pistol at me and give me orders?" Ratcliffe sneered.
"Ah ah. I didn't allow you to speak," John warned, holding his pistol steady at his old enemy. "Now give that coat here," John said, stepping forward slowly and taking it. "Pocahontas is freezing and that wool looks so warm. Put this on," he directed her, holding it out. She took it gratefully; the instant it was on was a relief.
"Your attempt to kill her obviously failed."
Ratcliffe stood, silent for a long moment.
"You should be dead from cold and exposure, your flesh left to rot," he said, his eyes wide in incredulity.
"Yet I am not," Pocahontas replied. "And I intend to make your plans against us known to the people in Jamestown and in my people's villages."
Ratcliffe shook his head, a warning gleaming in his eyes. "Oh no, princess, I do not think so. You see, I intend to finish the job right here."
"You move one finger and I will kill you," John shouted in warning, stepping closer, pistol at the ready.
"You wanted a civilized discussion, Smith. But I am afraid we cannot have one with ..." Ratcliffe gestured with the pistol he was holding, "that ... thing ... in the room with us. Kindly make her go outside where she belongs. Then you and I can talk business. It will be like old times. You know ... how many of them we can kill in a single day, that sort of thing. Remember, you boasted of a body count once." He grinned wickedly.
The couple stood in shocked silence. The freezing cold floor made Pocahontas' bare feet ache. They looked at each other, at a loss of what to do, until Pocahontas gave John a subtle nod, a look.
John swallowed and then gestured to the door. "You heard him. Go."
Pocahontas took painfully cold steps to the door, brushing close by John as she did so, so close that shoulders touched and their hands intertwined briefly. Her hand was on the door's latch when Ratcliffe spoke.
"But before you go, my dear, you have one last chance to tell me where the gold is. If you lie to me I will shoot you in the back as you go out the door."
"Just try to shoot her and I will kill you before you even turn to fire," John snapped, finally closing the distance between himself and the disgraced governor. Standing by the door, Pocahontas quickly stepped up behind Ratcliffe. She reached an arm around his neck. "Step away from him," she said in a threatening voice.
Ratcliffe paused, finger on the pistol's trigger, as he felt the blade of the knife bite gently into the generous flesh of his neck. "I said step away," Pocahontas said again, pressing the blade just a bit.
Ratcliffe slowly raised his hands. John snatched the pistol from him. As Ratcliffe took steps backward, he suddenly kicked Pocahontas off balance, and grabbed the knife from her as she lost her footing and stumbled. Ratcliffe's coat, several sizes much too large on her, slipped from one of her shoulders. In the flash of the following second, Ratcliffe swiped his hand in a rapid arc and drove the blade into her side.
And in the flash of a second, the shaky plan the couple had hastily devised fell apart.
Author's Note: Hello, Readers! I was not happy with the direction this story was going, so I edited Chapter 4 to end on the more suspenseful note I was trying for originally. Stay tuned! ... Chapter 5 is in the works!