There, in a shaft of fractured sunlight, stood Spotted Dog—the Catawba warrior Jake had warned her about.
“Spotted Dog’s worse than bad news,” Jake’s voice echoed in her mind. “He takes what he wants, and there ain’t no mercy in him. If you see him, you run.”
But the man standing before her was no whispered warning. He was real. And far more terrifying than any campfire tale.
His eyes—black, unreadable—were locked on the figure in front of him: the Cherokee girl. The same one Mattie-Rae had seen by the river. But now, she was caught in his grip, struggling, her face set in grim, defiant lines.
Spotted Dog’s posture was that of a predator—coiled, dangerous. His body moved with deliberate menace, each muscle poised as if mid-hunt. His face was streaked in dark paint, thick stripes carved across his cheekbones like shadows that didn’t wash away. In one hand, he held a long, curved blade. It caught the sunlight like ice.
Mattie-Rae’s blood turned cold. This wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was possession. The way he held the girl—tight-fisted, claiming—left no doubt about his intent. The look in his eyes was final. He had taken her. And he had no intention of letting her go.
But the girl did not yield.
She fought like a wildfire—hair whipping, limbs twisting—every inch of her straining against his hold. She was half his size, worn with exhaustion, but she didn’t falter. Not once. The fury in her eyes made her look taller than she was.
Mattie-Rae knew she should run. Find Jake. Bring help. But there was no time. Spotted Dog’s grip shifted, tightening, the blade flashing. She didn’t think. She acted. She seized a fallen branch—thick and rough, no more than a length of wind-dried pine—and stepped into the clearing.
“Let her be!” Mattie-Rae cried. Her voice cracked, but it rang clear through the trees.
Spotted Dog turned. His eyes narrowed, and a crooked smile crept across his painted face as he took her in—pale, slight, clutching a branch like it might matter. “You run now, girl,” he said, low and even. “This not for you.”
Mattie-Rae gritted her teeth. Her fingers curled tighter around the branch, though her hands were shaking. “I said let her be,” she said again, firmer this time. “You got no call to take her.”
Spotted Dog tilted his head, amused. “You think you stop me?” he asked. “With stick and tremble?” His voice was dry, almost calm—but behind it ran a threat as old as stone.
Her mind raced, though no clear plan emerged—no strength, no strategy that might overcome him. All she had was her voice, the tight burn of fear behind her ribs, and the sheer, desperate need to act. Without thinking further, she raised the branch in both hands and hurled it toward him.
The throw was poor—wild and underpowered—but it served its purpose. The branch spun wide, striking nothing of use and landing with a dull crack in the underbrush. Still, Spotted Dog flinched, caught off guard by the motion, and in that narrow, splintered moment, his grip faltered. His balance shifted just enough.
The girl moved—quick and sudden as a striking hawk—twisting low beneath his arm with a cry that tore through the clearing. Spotted Dog’s fingers clawed at empty air as she slipped free, stumbling once before regaining her footing. In a heartbeat, she was running, feet pounding against the cold earth, heading straight for Mattie-Rae.
Their eyes met for the briefest second—one breath, no more—but it was enough. No words passed between them, only understanding. There was no time for questions, no room for doubt.
Mattie-Rae reached out and seized her hand. “Run!” she gasped.
And together, they turned and vanished into the trees. Behind them, Spotted Dog’s roar tore through the trees, wild and wordless. Branches snapped, brush cracked beneath his boots as he gave chase.
They ran hard, breath scraping their throats, limbs cut raw by low boughs and thorns. Mattie-Rae barely felt her feet touch the ground. She didn’t know where they were heading—only that it had to be away.
The girl never let go of her hand. She ran like someone who had escaped worse. Eventually, the shouting behind them ebbed, breaking into fragments, then falling away altogether. The forest thickened again, folding in around them with a hush so deep it rang in Mattie-Rae’s ears.
She stumbled to a halt, knees quivering beneath her. One hand found the rough bark of a tree and clung to it. Her breath came in sharp, uneven pulls. The girl stood a few paces away, chest rising and falling in silence. Her eyes, dark and sharp, scanned the woods behind them as if she expected the trees to move.
Mattie-Rae swallowed hard and found her voice. “Are you hurt?” she asked. Her words came out strained.
The girl turned, studied her. “No. I am whole,” she said. Her breath was unsteady, but her voice held.
Mattie-Rae gave a shaky nod, brushing back her hair with one hand. “I—I didn’t rightly know what to do back there. Only that I couldn’t just stand and watch.”
A faint smile touched the girl’s mouth—small, almost reluctant, but there. “You did not watch,” she said. “You moved. That is what matters.”
Her gaze shifted back toward the direction they’d come, and the smile vanished. “He is Catawba. They call him Spotted Dog. He claimed me. I refused. And refusal… shamed him.”
