Holding on to Heaven (27 page)

"How did your husband pick up the tracks from their ponies?"

She thought a long time and chose her words well. "He does not know for certain. He just knows how to track; in the summer, in the winter, the season does not matter. He knows how many are in a party or whether he's tracking human or animal. He can sense which direction they are headed and where they came from. He knows whether they are red men or white and whether they are on foot or mounted. He knows if they are riding alone or carrying someone, or if they are in a hurry or taking their time. He even knows if they are wounded or sick."

She looked at the clouds overhead. "All these things he knows, but he couldn't tell you how he knows. Some call it a gift, others an oddity. Before our children came, he tracked for money or goods, but now he has no interest in leaving me or his children to chase predators, whether human or four-legged."

"No," Creed said. "I don't imagine he'd want to leave you."

Her gaze left the sky and she looked into his eyes. "Did you want to leave her?"

Surprised by her question, he struggled for an answer, but a low growl from Blue Boy saved him.

"It is my husband," Sage said. "There's a difference in his growl if a stranger comes."

The tracker stepped into the clearing. "She is no longer there, but they hold other white captives¾women and a handful of men. I spoke to an elder who is too old for battle, but not too old to talk about it. I told him my pony needed to rest and I needed food."

Unable to hide his impatience, Creed blurted the words out. "Where is she? Is she alive?"

"The black man was right. The old one said the chief sold her to a French man who goes by the name of LaRoux. They travel up the Minnesota to where it meets the Mississippi. If they reach Canada, it is over."

Creed wanted to scream, longed to put his fist through a tree, but knew the first urge was out of the question and he wasn't close enough to strike a tree. "Did he tell you which way they went?"

"There is only one way out of their camp to the river. I know how to get there without going near the village."

The riders and dog left the clearing and headed toward the water.

When they were out of earshot, Wanapaya spoke. "There are four¾LaRoux, two other traders and a woman called Knife Killer."

"A squaw?" Creed asked.

He nodded. "She is not Dakota, but they fear her greatly. The old man says she is evil and has earned her name well."

Creed wondered if his luck would change soon. Things seemed to be getting worse as the hours passed.

"There is a simple-minded one," the tracker said.

"Stupid me," Creed said. "I should've known."

A bewildered look crossed Wanapaya's face.

"Never mind," Creed said. "Talking to myself. What about the simple-minded one?"

"The old man could not recall his name, but said we will hear him before we see him."

"Hear him?" Sage asked. "What do you mean?"

"He spends his time making the call of the birds."

"Birds?" Creed folded his arms over his chest. "He makes bird calls?"

"Yes, he is wrong in the head, as your people say."

Creed tried to maintain a fragile control. "What of Lauren? Did the old one know anything about her?"

"I could not ask much for fear he would find me out. One has to be careful with questions. I asked about the battles and the white captives in the village. He said many settlers were killed by his people and the captives were brought back to replace the Dakota who died."

"What will happen to them now?" Sage asked.

"They will be killed or traded back to the bluecoats."

"Lauren?" Creed asked.

"The old man said one white woman with a pleasing face and a strong heart was sold to the French for gold." He glanced toward his wife. "He speaks of the woman you seek. They will use the gold to buy blankets and food during The Moon of the Long Night."

Creed fought back the urge to interrupt the man, but knew it wasn't the way of the Indian. Everything had to proceed in proper order. It would be rude to rush him.

Sage must have sensed his frustration and pulled it from her husband in the gentle way Creed had begun to recognize. "Did he say where in Canada they were taking her, my husband?"

"They go to Montreal, where everyone goes to trade furs. They have a good start on us, but they must stop at night for food and sleep. If we travel day and night without stopping, we will catch them before they leave the territory."

"What will they do with her when they reach Montreal?" Creed held his breath, not certain he wanted to hear the answer.

"They will sell her again to a renegade band."

An audible groan left his lips. "We ride then, all day, all night if we have to until we catch up to them." He looked at Sage. "Can you handle it?"

She smiled, urged her mount forward and said over her shoulder, "There's only one question now. Will
you
be able to keep up, dark stranger?"

They slept while they rode. The lead rider remained awake while the others slept sitting up in the saddle. The tracker fastened a resting post to each saddle and secured it with a leather strap across their chests. Wanapaya took the first watch, Creed the second, and Sage the third. They stayed close to the river, hugging the underbrush along the bank. Talking little the first day or the following morning, they stopped only to relieve themselves or to feed and water their mounts. They ate in the saddle—dried pemmican, wild berries, corn pones and beef jerky washed down with water.

By the following afternoon, the cloak of gloom enveloping the dust-ridden travelers lifted. They knew the French battled an upward current, and fearful of drifting logs and hidden rocks, the canoes couldn't travel up river after dark. The traders would make camp at night, affording Lauren's rescuers a chance to catch up.

Creed kept an eye on Sage throughout the journey, stunned by her agility and strength. If he didn't know better, he'd swear an oath she sprang from the loins of a full-blooded Winnebago. She rode like a skilled equestrienne, shot an arrow with precise accuracy and never seemed to tire. On the contrary, the hard rigors of the trail didn't faze her, and not once had she whined or complained.

Although so like Lauren in looks and mannerisms, the similarities stopped there. They had walked different paths in life and the glaring contradictions were too huge to ignore.

Raised in a sheltered environment, Lauren spent her life pampered and coddled, and, unconscionably spoiled. Although feisty, if not damn mouthy, she embodied fragility and vulnerability. That thought brought a scowl to his face. He couldn't imagine the deprivations she must be suffering now and wondered if she could bear up under the onslaught.

He slowed the gray to a lazy walk and waited until Sage caught up with him. "Where did you learn to ride and handle a bow like that?"

When she nodded toward her husband, the familiar smile dazzled him and his heart missed a beat. "He is a good teacher, no?"

Creed pulled his eyes from hers. "Yes, he is a good tutor and a good tracker."

She must have sensed his desperation. "He will find her."

Her affirmation of faith lifted his spirits, as did the love they shared. Creed envied that adoration. He had been such a fool, had held it between his fingers and like sand, let it slip away. He made a vow¾if he found Lauren alive, he wouldn't let her slip away again.

Wanapaya raised his right hand, brought them to a halt, and motioned them to silence. When he dismounted and slipped into a dense copse of trees, Sage flicked her wrist and Blue Boy followed him.

The dog returned with Wanapaya on his tail. "They camped over there last night," he said, pointing toward the river. "Three by the fire, two forty feet away."

"Why do they split up at night?" Creed asked.

"To watch the back door. The old man spoke the truth, the canoes are heavy with furs."

Creed rubbed his chin. "How do you know he didn't lie about that?"

"Deep ruts in the muddy bank."

"What else did you find?"

"This," he said, handing it to Creed.

He studied the white fabric, a tattered remnant of a woman's hankie he coveted in his hand like a gold nugget. Her initials—L.M.G. Lauren McCain Gatlin—was all that remained. He held it to his nose, the familiar sent flooding his senses. Filled with simultaneous longing and rage, the emotions paralyzed him.

"She is smart." Wanapaya said, narrowing his eyes. "She thinks someone comes for her and left it in the woods when she relieved herself."

She lives. She lives.
Creed stuffed the fabric into his shirt pocket and looked away from Sage's perceptive eyes. Then he cursed.

Sage pulled her mount abreast of his minutes later. "I wish to know about her."

It took forever for him to draw out the words. "She is like you in looks and speech, but very different in all other ways. She's strong-willed, but compassionate, lives every moment as if it's her last. She's not afraid to speak her mind and rises to every challenge." A different mixture of emotions knocked on his door. Regret. Unquenchable hunger and although he hated to admit it, a jealousy that ran so deep, it terrified him. "And, she is incredibly beautiful, like you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sage said with a smile. "Even though I know you are thinking of her."

His tone cool and reflective, he added, "She's like a child sometimes, vulnerable, but tries to hide it. I think loneliness was her best friend while growing up, especially after the death of her mother."

"She told you this?"

He shook his head and suppressed a laugh. "No, I'd be the last person she'd confide in. Her aunt told me." He felt his cheeks grow hot. "Hell, I haven't said that many words since I left for the war." He pulled his mount ahead of hers and said, "And if you tell her I said the moon pales beside her beauty, I'll deny it."

* * * *

Sage had watched him beneath half-shuttered eyes when he placed the shredded remains of a handkerchief to his nose and sniffed. His eyes had closed and his breathing grew shallow. He stuffed it into his pocket with the utmost of care, almost as if he considered it a cherished keepsake.

In truth, Sage had been studying him for days. He loved her sister, plain and simple, yet that love encompassed a mysterious, unspeakable sadness. His muscles tensed when someone spoke her name, and a look of pain crossed the flint-steel eyes. However he tried to mask it, his feelings for her lived in some deep, hidden part of his being,a living, unquenchable fire he couldn't extinguish. When he said she'd married his brother, his voice sounded empty.

Sage didn't have all the pieces to the puzzle and knew better than to ask. Deadliness seethed in the man, a silent rage he stowed beneath his hard exterior. But, oh, how it lurked and festered. Akin to a great beast of the forest, raw, primitive, danger emanated from his pores. She wondered what he’d do to the traders when he discovered they'd defiled and raped her. She shuddered. She knew what he'd do from the first moment she heard him speak Lauren's name.

Sensing his restlessness and frustration over the possibility of finding Lauren dead along the trail, her heart went out to him. She reached across the short distance separating them and placed her hand on his arm. "We will find her alive, I promise."

Chapter Sixteen

The canoes clipped up the river faster than slippery eels at low tide. Well-muscled arms strained against the strong current as the oars sank and rose, putting distance and open water behind them.

This morning, Lauren finally lost track of time and resigned herself to defeat. Comparable to a limp rag beat against a rock, swished up and down, and left beneath a blazing sun to dry, she suffered in silence. Stiff and achy, her tender skin bore evidence of numerous cuts and bruises. Every ligament and muscle in her body ached from the tiresome hours spent in the canoe, not to mention the hard, cold ground she'd slept on every night.

LaRoux, one notch lower than pure evil, basked in her misery. The guttersnipe held a particular fondness for jerking her to her feet by the leather thong around her wrists or shoving her to the ground with such force she thought her neck would break. The sadistic torture ceased only when he flexed his muscle behind the oars.

He bound her ankles with a tether every night before tossing a fur at her head. Like before, she covered her battered body with the rank pelt. Mosquitoes the size of parlor flies hounded her night and day, and masses of raised welts ran the length of her arms and legs from incessant scratching. The long tresses she once took great pride in hung limp about her, caked with grime and Lord knows what else. A knuckle-wrap to her left cheek left an unsightly bruise and matched the purple cast under her right eye.

Her clothes were torn and filthy, and she’d lost a sleeve to her blouse miles ago.

While the transport navigated the rapid current, she glanced to her right. A pair of sharp, beady eyes glared back. The squaw watched her every move. Given the opportunity, the beefy woman would take great pleasure in cutting her throat.

Her gaze wandered to Henri, the halfwit on her journey into hell. Perched upon the seat in front of her, he pulled on the oars and scanned the distant shores for his avian companions. Whenever one came into view, a repertoire of chirps and cheeps spewed from his mouth.
Kork-kork,
the guttural titter of a ring-necked pheasant, or the raspy
chip-burr
of the scarlet tanager echoed across the murky waters. On and on it went for hours until Lauren thought she'd go mad.

As if to read her mind, Henri looked over his shoulder and laughed.
Caw, caw
. He had spied a crow.

In a particularly surly mood this morning, LaRoux shot back, "Shut up that damn bird noise, Henri, or I'll feed you to the fish!"

A meek
caw
fell from the imbecile's lips.

Henri's beady eyes sat deep into his skull. A prominent Adam's apple bobbled in his scrawny neck, more so when he shifted into an imaginary bird. When he wasn't rowing, he flapped his arms like a frightened rooster whether mimicking a barn swallow or a goose. Lauren wondered where the man had left his mind.