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such force that her head snapped backwards. The pain was so intense that tears came to her eyes. Seeing him raise his hand to strike her once more, she closed her eyes and waited for the blow to fall. Hearing him cry out in pain, she opened her eyes in surprise, as she saw him pitch forward on his face with a knife protruding from his back.
    The other Indian released her arm and they both stared at the dead man in mutual confusion.
    Mara was the first to see him—the lone Indian sitting astride his horse at the top of the hill. His dark eyes were alert; his handsome face unreadable. She wondered why he had killed one of his own kind. Was he from an enemy tribe, or had he intended to save her?
    She watched as he slowly dismounted and walked cautiously toward them. His eyes were not on her, but on the Indian who stood just behind her. She saw his eyes narrow as he drew near. He had no weapon, for his knife was buried in the back of the dead man.
    Mara stepped back a pace as the two Indians sized each other up. The newcomer was tall, and extremely handsome. Mara saw the sun reflected off the golden armband around his upper arm. He wore light-colored buckskin trousers, with a fringed vest to match. His long black hair hung to his shoulders. She could not help comparing the two men. Even in her confusion and fear she noted that the tall Indian was like no other she had ever seen before.
    Her captor picked his knife up from the ground and lunged at the tall man, but with catlike grace the tall Indian sidestepped the knife thrust, and with one smooth motion retrieved his own knife from the dead man's back. Then before the other man could react, he plunged his knife into the stomach of her tormentor. Mara watched as the man fell to his knees and then pitched forward to lie dead at her feet.
    It had all happened so quickly that she was stunned. She watched as the Indian rolled the dead man over and withdrew his knife, wiping it clean of the man's blood. He then slipped the knife into a leather sheath that he wore around his waist. She cringed in fear as he turned his eyes on her. Stepping back a pace, she wondered if she had been rescued by the tall Indian only to become his prisoner.
    His dark eyes moved over her body and then rested on her face. Mara drew in her breath at the hatred she saw in his eyes. Instinct told her this man was far more dangerous than the other two had been. His lips curled into a savage smile as he noted her fear. Tajarez did not know why he had rescued her from the two men. Maybe it was because he had seen her fighting so valiantly, or maybe it was that he did not like to see a woman mistreated, even if she was white.
    Mara was confused when he turned his back and walked away from her. She watched as he climbed up the slope, mounted his horse, gathered up the reins of his packhorse, and rode slowly away.
    She had an overwhelming desire to follow him and beg him not to leave her. Suddenly she felt more alone than she ever had in all of her sixteen years. Tears slid down her face as she stood by the dead bodies of the two men.
    Tajarez checked his horse and looked back at the white woman. She had not moved from the spot where he had left her, and was looking at him with such a forlorn expression on her face. She was not his responsibility. He had already set her free from her two captors. What more did she want from him? Because of her, he had slain two men whom he bore no malice.
    Turning his mount around angrily, he rode back to where she was standing. It went against everything he believed in to desert a woman in trouble. The women of the Lagonda were protected and cared for by their men. He knew she would not survive on her own. He would take her to the white man's fort, which was only a few days journey. Then he would be rid of her.
    He pulled up his horse and looked down at her with a grim expression on his face. He wondered why the two men had abducted her. She was no beauty; in fact, he felt repulsed