Excerpt of Blue Moon by Jill Marie Landis

Prologue Southern Illinois
Late April, 1819

She would be nineteen tomorrow. If she lived.

In the center of a faint deer trail on a ribbon of dry
land running through a dense swamp, a young woman crouched
like a cornered animal. The weak, gray light from a dull,
overcast sky barely penetrated the bald cypress forest as
she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, trying
to catch her breath. She wore nothing to protect her from
the elements but a tattered, rough, homespun dress and an
ill-fitting pair of leather shoes that had worn blisters
on her heels.

The primeval path was nearly obliterated by lichen and
fern that grew over deep drifts of dried twigs and
leaves. Here and there it was littered with the larger,
rotting, fallen limbs of trees. The fecund scent of decay
clung to the air, pressed down on her, stoked her fear and
gave it life.

Breathe. Breathe.

Her breath came fast and hard. She squinted through her
tangled black hair, shoved it back, her fingers streaked
with mud. Her hands shook. Terror born of being lost was
heightened by the knowledge that night was going to fall
before she found her way out of the swamp.

Not only did the encroaching darkness frighten her, but so
did the deep, silent waters along both sides of the
trail. Realizing she would soon be surrounded by night
and water both, a strangled cry escaped her. Behind her,
from somewhere deep amid the cypress trees wrapped in rust-
colored bark came the sound of a splash as some unseen
creature dropped into the watery ooze.

She rose, spun around and scanned the surface of the
swamp. Frogs and fish, venomous copperheads and turtles
big as frying pans thrived beneath the lacy emerald carpet
of duckweed that floated upon the water. As she knelt
there, wondering whether she should continue on in the
same direction or turn back, she watched a small knot of
fur skim over the surface of the water toward her.

A soaking wet muskrat lost its grace as soon as it made
land and lumbered up the bank in her direction. Almost
amused and yet wary, the girl scrambled back a few
inches. The creature froze and stared back with dark,
beady eyes before it turned tail, hit the water and
disappeared.

Forcing herself to her feet, the girl kept her eyes
trained on the narrow footpath, gingerly stepping through
piles of damp, decayed leaves. Again she paused, lifted
her head, listened for the sound of a human voice, the
pounding footsteps which meant someone was in pursuit of
her along the trail.

When all she heard was the distant knock of a woodpecker,
she let go a sigh of relief. Determined to keep moving,
she trudged on, ever vigilant, hoping that the edge of the
swamp lay just ahead.

Suddenly, the sharp, shrill scream of a bobcat set her
heart pounding. With a fist pressed against her lips, she
squeezed her eyes closed and froze, afraid to move, afraid
to even breathe. The cat screamed again, and the cry
echoed across the haunting silence of the swamp until it
seemed to stir the very air around her.

She glanced up at dishwater gray patches of weak afternoon
light nearly obliterated by the cypress trees that grew so
close together in some places that not even a small child
could pass between them. The thought that a wild cat
might be looming somewhere above her in the tangled limbs,
crouched and ready to pounce, sent her running down the
narrow, winding trail.

She had not gone a hundred steps when the toe of her shoe
caught beneath an exposed tree root. Thrown forward, she
began to fall and cried out.

As the forest floor rushed up to meet her, she put out her
hands to break her fall. A shock of pain shot through
her wrist an instant before her head hit a log.

Noah LeCroix walked to the edge of the wide, wooden porch
surrounding the one-room cabin he had built high in the
sheltering arms of an ancient bald cypress tree and looked
out over the swamp. Twilight gathered, thickening the
shadows that shrouded the trees. He loved the magic of
darkness, watching the stars appear in the sky, almost as
much as he loved the swamp.

The swamp pulsed with life all night long. The darkness,
coupled with the still, watery landscape, settled a
protective blanket of solitude over him. In the dense,
liquid world beneath him and the forest around his home
all manner of life coexisted in a delicate balance. He
likened the swamp's dance of life and death to the way
good and evil existed together in the world of men beyond
its boundaries.

This shadowy place was his universe, his sanctuary. He
savored its solitude, was used to it after having grown up
in almost complete isolation with his mother, a reclusive
woman of the Illinois tribe who left her people behind
when she chose to settle in far-off Kentucky with his
father, a French Canadian fur trapper named Gerard LeCroix.

Living alone served Noah's purpose now more than ever. He
had no desire to dwell among "civilized men," especially
now that white settlers were moving across the Ohio and
into Illinois in droves.

Noah turned away from the smooth log railing that bordered
the wide, covered porch cantilevered out over the swamp.
He was about to step into the cabin where a single oil
lamp cast its circle of light when he heard a bobcat
scream. He would not have given the sound a second
thought if not for the fact that a few seconds later the
sound was followed by a high-pitched shriek, one that
sounded human enough to stop him in his tracks. He paused
on the threshold and listened intently. A chill ran down
his spine.

It had been so long since he had heard the sound of
another human voice that he could not really be certain,
but he thought he had just heard a woman's cry.

Noah shook off the ridiculous, unsettling notion and
walked into the cabin. The walls were covered with the
tanned hides of mink, bobcat, otter, beaver, fox, white-
tailed deer and even bear. His few other possessions, a
bone-handled hunting knife with a distinctive wolf's head
carved on it, various traps, some odd pieces of clothing,
a few pots and a skillet, four wooden trenchers and mugs
and a rifle, were all neatly stored inside. All he owned
and needed in the world, save the dugout canoe secured
near the base of the tree.

Sparse but comfortable, even the sight of his familiar
surroundings could not help him shake the feeling that
something unsettling was about to happen, that all was not
right in his world.

Pulling a crock off a high shelf, Noah poured a splash of
whiskey into a cup and drank it down, his concentration
focused on the deepening gloaming and the sound of the
swamp. An unnatural stillness lingered in the air after
the puzzling scream, almost as if, like him, the wild
inhabitants of Heron Pond were collectively waiting for
something to happen. Unable to deny his curiosity any
longer, Noah sighed in resignation and walked back to the
door.

He lingered there for a moment, staring out at the growing
shadows, trying to convince himself he was making
something out of nothing, but when he could not shake the
feeling that something was wrong, that someone was out
there, he reached for the primed and loaded Hawken rifle
that stood just inside the door and stepped out into the
gathering dusk.