The Captive Heart (14 page)

Retreating a step, she straightened her shoulders and met his stare. “I was a governess. Employers frown upon a candid tongue.”

“To the point of a whipping?”

“Of course not.” She shrugged. “Letting me go without a reference would have been punishment enough.”

Ahh. That was it, then. The woman must have spoken her mind in the wrong company. “Is that why you’re here?”

She bit her lower lip, a trait he was learning to decipher as stubborn determination.

He stepped closer. “What happened to you, Red Bird?”

She retreated a pace, an insane dance, one that would lead her to the edge of the porch in no time. “A powerful man made advances that I did not welcome. I responded in a way that ruined any chance of me ever working again in England.”

“You … responded?” As she stood there, pistol in hand, fire in her gaze, he wondered what on earth the woman might have done. A grin split his face, large enough that it pulled at the tender skin left behind by McDivitt’s uppercut. “Thunder and turf, woman. Maybe I ought not be teaching you to operate a firearm. God help the man that crosses you.”

She stood silent, staring, a picture of sweetness and lightning with the way her fingers yet curled around the handle of the pistol.

He laughed and stalked from the porch, toward the stable. He might have to rename the woman Red Tail Hawk with her fierce gaze and tense focus. He grinned at the thought and shook his head. He wasn’t aware that he was whistling until he heard it himself.

And he hadn’t whistled in years.

E
leanor retied her apron while Grace did her best to jump up and pull the strings from her hands. She spun and scooped the little imp off her feet, inhaling the child’s ever-present smell of sunshine and dirt.

“So much naughtiness in you today, little one.” She pressed a kiss to the crown of Grace’s head. “We shall put that energy to good use, hmm?”

Grace bobbed and wriggled, all the while repeating, “Hmm? Hmm?”

Bending, she released the girl, then straightened and surveyed the cabin. She’d already swept the floor and cleaned the breakfast dishes—easy to do when she’d taken to serving hardtack and jam. Samuel, as usual, left them alone immediately after eating, striding off into the woods to do whatever it was that trappers did.

Over the past two weeks, she’d developed a routine—of sorts. Not that anything about this land could be regulated into the daily schedule of the fine homes she’d served in. Still, she’d found a small way to fit in by teaching Grace the value and educational benefits of productivity. Together they’d cleaned, organized, and beautified the space between these log walls. The trouble was, though she’d tidied the cabin, she’d nearly worked herself out of a job.

“Come along, Grace. Maybe it is time we expand our endeavors.” She strode to the front door, flinging it open to a sunny June day, leastwise what rays could travel into the tunnel-like entrance on the porch. Heaps of wood on either side, stacked from decking to roof, blocked most of the view.

A slow smile tugged her lips. Who’d have thought her next opportunity was right outside the door?

She stooped to Grace’s level. “How would you like to help me clear this off? We shall make it a fun game, shall we not?”

Grace reached up her hands, planting a palm on each of Eleanor’s cheeks. “Edoda?”

“No, sweetie. This game is just for you and me, not your father, though it shall be a grand surprise for him when he returns.” She stood, eyeing the stacks through narrowed eyes. Indeed. Clearing the porch would be a welcome surprise, especially if she dragged out a few barrels for sitting on, and perhaps fashioned a small table from a crate. Why, if she potted a few plants, it might even pass for a poor replica of an English garden sitting cove.

They worked well past dinner, until perspiration stuck her shift to her skin and Grace hunkered down by the front door, sucking her thumb. After a meager meal of porridge, she laid Grace in her crib, then heaved herself up and dove back into work.

Eventually, all the wood lay in one of two piles on the ground at each side of the porch. Swiping the dampness from the back of her forehead, she retrieved a broom from inside and swept off the bits of bark left behind, concentrating so hard, she jumped when a question hit her from behind.

“What do you think you’re doing!”

Samuel strode across the lot, his step so determined, his deerskin leggings clung tight against his thighs. On one hip, a knife tied to a buckskin tether swung at his belt. On the other, his ever-present tomahawk. He wore no coat, just a trade-cloth shirt with laces hanging loose at the neck, his thick leather belt cinching in at the waist.

She set the broom aside, keeping it within reach. The man looked like a wolf on the hunt.

He took the stairs in a long-legged leap, surveying the empty deck from one end to the other. “What have you done?”

A raven screeched from the top of a tall tree, adding to the forbidding vision Samuel drew. He was a fearsome sight, all wild-haired and cagey, his fingers curled tight at his sides.

Eleanor clasped her own hands in front of her, fighting the urge to wring the life from them. Why would the man not be pleased with her industry?

“I thought,” she spoke slowly, as though explaining a point of grammar or mathematical concept to one of her charges, “if the wood were cleared away, the porch might provide extra living space. Perhaps we might sit out here in the cool of the evening.”

He turned on her, a storm brewing in his dark eyes. If a bolt of lightning shot out, she would not have been surprised. His swath of dark hair covered half his face, but she didn’t need to see it to read his emotions. The tight lines of his mouth and the strained muscles on his neck revealed enough.

“House not big enough for you?” His voice was a growl.

“No … I mean … of course it is.” The words slipped from her mouth like a broken necklace, the beads rolling in every direction. She clenched her fingers tighter, hoping the action might squeeze out some courage. “It is a very sturdy home. I simply thought—”

“You thought?”

She swallowed, retreating a step. She much preferred his glower to this unnerving grin.

In three long strides, he closed the distance between them, towering over her. If she looked up, she’d face that disturbing smile, so she kept her gaze fixed on the leather strap crossing his chest, the one holding his rifle against his back, and tried hard not to notice the tanned skin stretched tight over muscle where his shirt hung open.

“And while you were thinking, did you stop to think why I might’ve hauled all that wood to the porch in the first place?” His shirt strained against the strap as he sucked in a breath.

She stood mute. What was there to say? That the thought never crossed her mind? That she hadn’t a clue there’d been some purpose in it other than his laziness to retrieve wood from farther than the front door? That she thought him untidy and unorganized and altogether intriguing?

Intriguing
?

Jerking up her chin, she met his piercing gaze head-on instead of dwelling on such a rogue notion. “I did not. I am sorry.”

And she was. Sorry to be in South Carolina. Sorry to fail at yet another position. Sorry to breathe.

He stilled, and for a long while, said nothing. But something stirred inside him, for his shoulders slowly slackened.

“Fine,” he said at length. “But stick to caring for Grace instead of turning this place into some high and mighty English manor. You’re living in the backcountry, woman. Get used to it.”

He wheeled about and stalked off on silent feet, nothing but the shush of the breeze left by his movement ruffling against her cheek.

Her eyes burned. She blinked, refusing to let one tear fall. She’d been wrong. Horribly wrong. Despite her best efforts, she didn’t fit in here.

And never would.

A staccato birdcall pecked against Samuel’s ear, adding to the tension thick between him and the woman. He didn’t have time for this. Not now. But her eyes swam blue, the hurt caused by his harsh words hot and liquid. Her chin trembled, barely perceptible, but enough to catch his eye. He ought say something more, soften the blow from his tongue lashing, reach out and wipe those tears away before they brimmed over and washed her whole face, maybe even pull her to him and let her cry away the pain.

The soft feeling punched him in the gut.

Seven more notes struck. He pivoted and stamped into the woods. He should have known adding a woman would change things, but the blasted lady wasn’t just changing Grace and the house. He shoved down a growl. How could a snip of an Englishwoman get under his skin in a fortnight? She wasn’t much to look at, all red-haired and scrawny. Yet he saw her face as he lay on his pallet in the dark of night, night after night. Her soft breathing a strange kind of incense, and if he sniffed, he just might scent her here and now, for he remembered everything about her.

He cut off the path and dove through the underbrush, relishing the scrape of thorns against his forearms and roots to snag his step. Better to think on green wildness than a red-headed woman.

Ahead, a brown shape emerged from a tree trunk. Inoli was shirtless except for a quiver and bow strapped to his back. His brother’s deerskin leggings matched his own, as did the knife and tomahawk at his waist, but he also wore a traditional breechclout and short moccasins.

Samuel narrowed his eyes and drew up close, circling the man. Faded purple splotches and a few knuckle-split cuts colored his skin. “Looks like McDivitt’s men caught up to you.”

Inoli’s dark gaze searched his face. “Looks like Red Bird leaves a mark on you also, my brother. You charge from your home like a man bent on battle. All you need is war paint.”

He clasped his brother’s forearm with a smile. “Not a bad idea. Let’s walk.”

They turned onto a deer path, broadleaf plantains crushing beneath their feet.

“Are you wishing you’d taken Running Doe instead?”

He chewed on the question like a tough bite of venison. Running Doe might have been ready and willing to welcome him into her arms, but she’d never have taken to Grace the way Red Bird had. He shook his head. “No, Red Bird’s already taught Grace new words and how to sit proper at the table.”

“You have a table?” Humor rippled at the edges of Inoli’s voice.

He turned, shrugging. “She’s changed everything.”

“Even you?”

A scowl waged war on his face, and he wheeled about.

Inoli laughed, the rumbling sound scaring a squirrel up a tree. “So she does not share her bed with you yet.”

He broke into a sprint, preferring flight to fight. One could never win a war of words with Inoli. He’d learned not to try. By the time he passed pine ridge and reached the big rock nestled at the bottom of the next ravine, his shirt clung to his back and sweat trickled down his temples. He climbed up, and his lungs slowed their heaving by the time Inoli scrambled to sit at his side. He may not win at word games, but he could always best his brother at a footrace.

Pulling out a pouch of pemmican, Samuel handed some over. “Tell me of your journey.”

Inoli caught his breath, then chewed good and long before he answered. “Three men tracked me.”

“How far?”

Inoli glanced at him without so much as twitching his face. “As far as I let them.”

Samuel reared back, studying the man’s quiver. Sure enough, three new red beads, thread fresh and white, added to the design sewn into the leather. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. The taking of life, especially that of the unredeemed, sank a rock into his gut. “McDivitt won’t be happy about the loss of his men.”

“It could not be helped.”

He let out a long breath. “No doubt.”

Insects, birds, and small game all chattered, yet for a while, they sat in peace. In an odd way, connection and understanding thrived on the non-words. The forest spoke like God’s voice, alive and real, leaving healing and hope in the wake of silence.

Shadows stretched longer, and finally Samuel spoke. “You delivered the message?”

Inoli grunted. “I will go to Charles Towne no more. Nor should you. Even by night Redcoats roam the streets like rats in a storage hut.” He fumbled with a pouch at the side of his waist and pulled out a scrap of rag paper.

Samuel unfolded the note, his gut tightening. Getting information to and from the Sons of Liberty had always been difficult, but with more Redcoats prowling the city, it would soon become downright impossible. Shoving the thought aside, he focused on the note, black ink now faded to grey, scrawled dead center.

neg. K. A. attend

“Blast it!” He wadded up the piece and pitched it far into the undergrowth.

Inoli’s dark gaze followed the arc, then turned to him. “What does it mean?”

Lifting his hat, he ran his hands through his hair, then tugged the rim down low. “Seems there’s a negotiator coming to Keowee to speak with Attakullakulla about swearing allegiance to the British. I’m to be present and report back the conversation.”

Inoli’s head cocked like a raven, keen interest shining in his eyes. “How will you know when this man comes?”