The Captive Heart (21 page)

“You never told me what this traitor did,” Samuel said.

“William Blacking would be better named blackguard.” Rafferty’s horse whickered, as if in agreement with his master. “He bedded the major-general’s wife.”

Samuel turned from Wohali, fire burning in his veins. “I was pulled away from my family for a grudge hunt?”

“It’s more than that. During the … er … encounter, Blacking lifted some sensitive information and sold it to the bloody Patriots.”

Samuel yanked out another piece of jerky and bit off a big chunk, hiding a smile. Maybe he ought not be looking so hard for Blacking.

Hooves pounded on the trail. A grey horse carrying a man with even greyer eyes halted in front of them. Stane’s biceps bulged from holding back the animal. “McDivitt’s found something.”

Samuel clenched his jaw. The only thing McDivitt could find without help was another man’s wife. Too bad Angus wasn’t the traitor. That would be a hunt he’d relish.

Even so, he mounted Wohali, and he and Rafferty set off with Stane. Half a mile down the trail, Stane’s horse veered east. Barton Hollow wasn’t far off. Was McDivitt to blame for the shot? Stane led them among a stand of ash, then reined in where Angus stood next to his horse.

Samuel dismounted and approached him. The man fairly reeked of gunpowder, and black stains darkened the forefinger on his right hand. But something else fouled the air. Metallic. Acrid.

Death.

Samuel scowled. “I thought I made it clear no one is to discharge their firearm without my say-so.”

McDivitt’s watery blue eyes narrowed. “You’re not God, Heath. You don’t make the rules.”

Rafferty stepped between them. “Gentlemen, must I break up yet another skirmish?”

McDivitt eyed him, then spat, the brown liquid narrowly missing the major’s boot.

Rafferty’s face drained of its usual florid color—a sure sign something was about to blow.

Samuel sighed. The sooner they found this Blacking, the better for them all. “What have you got, McDivitt?”

Angus hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “Over there. Heard a tussle. Thought for sure we caught the man, so I pulled one off.”

Samuel waded into a growth of pea vine so thick, it reached past his knees. Ten yards out, he noticed a mist of blackflies gathering in a swarm. Five yards, he sniffed the stink of warm blood and split guts. One more yard, and the vines flattened into a splattered mess.

A doe. Stomach ripped open. Entrails pulled out and left in a heap. His gaze followed the direction of the strewn innards, along the trampled undergrowth, and landed on an ash trunk, where the escape route turned south. Red smeared a stripe across the grey bark, hip level.

He tromped toward it. A small plug of black fur snagged on the tree. So, the killer he and Inoli had detected was still out here—and now paying a cost for it. Maybe McDivitt’s blind shot got lucky, but more likely not. And a wounded fiend was an angry one.

Samuel turned and stalked back to the men.

McDivitt puffed out his chest. “Told you. That man, Blacking, must’ve just killed that doe and was gutting her when I happened by. I think I hit him, too, judging by the blood I saw on that tree trunk … unless you didn’t catch that, Heath. We’re close. I say we hightail it after him.”

Samuel clenched his hands. Ahh, what a pleasure it would be to knock that smug look from Angus’s face.

But now was not the time. He splayed his fingers. “That deer wasn’t taken down by a man.”

McDivitt spit out a curse like a stream of tobacco. “All hail the mighty tracker, Samuel Heath. You couldn’t find your way through a wheat field on a July day.”

Rafferty stepped forward. “You are certain, Mr. Heath?”

“I am.”

“Then it seems that boot print to the west is the direction we ought to go.” Rafferty turned on his heel, one hand fluttering up in the air toward the dead deer. “This is no concern of ours.”

Samuel shook his head, hard pressed to decide if he ought to pity or scorn the major’s lack of understanding. “We better make it a concern. A rogue bear is nothing to be trifled with, and if this one’s wounded, it’s all the more dangerous.”

“Well, well … and you left your woman all alone?” Angus clicked his tongue. “Might be another wife to add to your kill count by the time you get back.”

Rage simmered hot, turning the world red. He could think of a certain bushy-bearded man he’d like to add to his kill count.

But as quickly as the fury rose, it twisted.

Into fear.

Hopefully Red Bird heeded his warning and stayed near the house. There was no predicting this beast, except that it meant to maul anything in its path.

With each chuck of the shovel point into the hardened earth, a new whiff of dirt exploded into a reddish cloud. Eleanor paused, leaning heavily on the handle, breathing hard and sweating hard, too. Her lips curled into a smirk. Sweat, indeed. A lady merely perspired, but there was nothing ladylike about the drips raining down her brow, her neck, and dampening the hollow between her shoulder blades. In little over half a year, she’d traded her prim English governess costume for the dust-covered skirts of a backcountry Colonial. Even she didn’t know who she was anymore. Or what she wanted.

What did she want?

She lifted her face, spying Grace across the lot. The girl played chase with a pretend kitty—nothing more than a few pinecones sewn into a scrap of cloth and tied to a string. Her fair hair streamed like a ray of the July sunshine, flashing white and gold, flying happy. Oh, to be a child again, with no worries and no aim except to enjoy life.

Arching her back, Eleanor gazed up at the sky. Thin ribbons of white wisped across the endless blue, prodded along by a hot breeze that hit the back of her neck. Would that God might tie those cloud ribbons into a bow and hand her the gift of wisdom.

“What am I to do with this life you’ve given me, Lord?” Her voice blended with the trill of a thrush. “In England, it was so clear. I knew where I was going and how to get there. But now … I am a wife, but not really. A mother to a child who is not mine. A foreigner unsure of my place. You have put me here, but why?”

Grace’s laughter floated like dandelion fluff on the air.

Eleanor pursed her lips. “If it is to teach me to be joyful, then it is not working.”

With a sigh, she gripped the shovel with both hands and turned over another piece of crusty soil. When she’d started digging this garden earlier in the day, it had seemed like a great idea. Now, with barely eight square feet loosened enough to maybe accept seeds, she wondered at the notion. Perhaps there was a reason Samuel had never planted a vegetable patch.

Samuel? She dug deep, throwing her whole body into the chore. The man’s Christian name came too easy, the memory of his touch too vivid. She might belong to him by law, but that didn’t mean her thoughts and feelings must be his as well.

Another waft of breeze curled over her shoulder, and she straightened, her nose twitching. A faint odor of something wicked lifted bumps on her arms. What?

She inhaled until her lungs begged her to leave off. Pine. Sweet. Tangy.

Nothing more.

She blew out the breath and heaved the shovel into the dirt. If Samuel were going to be gone for days on end, it wouldn’t do to live in fear the entire time.

The next waft, and the handle dropped from her grip. She froze, straining to smell, to hear, to breathe. The musky stench grew stronger, but there was no crashing of underbrush, no snapping of twigs. And thankfully, no clacking of sharp teeth.

Still … she drew in another deep breath. Undeniable. The same pungent stink she’d encountered that day at the creek—when Samuel came to her rescue. The reek of a bear.

Panic prickled from head to toe, magnifying with each of Grace’s giggles. This time there would be no Samuel. Only her.

“Stand and take charge … Tell it to go away.”

Samuel’s instruction surfaced, and she grabbed on to it like a piece of flotsam bobbing on a sea of fear. She had to turn. Face this thing. Force back a scream and issue out a command. Her mind knew it. Her body, not so much.

She stiffened her shoulders and her resolve. If nothing else, she’d go down fighting. On the count of three, then.

One.

Two.

She whirled.

Samuel’s instruction fell to the dirt, grinding beneath her heels as she backed away. He hadn’t taught her how to deal with this.

A brown body emerged through the woods, naked except for a breechclout. Eyes honed on her. Fierce.

Frightening.

Eleanor gasped.

The man cleared the trees. A bow and quiver of arrows bounced on his back, the leather strap the only stitch of decency on his naked chest. A knife hung from one hip, a tomahawk the other. Blood covered his leg, a gash from knee to moccasin. No wonder the man didn’t charge toward her.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t his prey, not the way his dark gaze bore into hers.

She turned and bolted.

Grace looked up at the movement. The string fell from her fingers. Her face split wide with a grin as bright as the summer day. “Ee-no-lee!” She squealed and jumped in a happy dance.

Eleanor’s blood turned cold. The little one could have no idea the danger they were in. She thought this was a game.

Eleanor grabbed Grace and swung back. The man was halfway across the yard now. Closing in. Near to the cabin. A line of blood stained the freshly dug dirt behind him. If she ran, hard, she could just about clear the porch and lock the door.

She sprinted.

Her heart pounded. So did her feet. Fire ants crawled over her scalp. She’d read of natives and their penchant for cutting off a trophy of hair.

Oh God, please.

Her foot hit a rock. The world tilted, ankle twisting sideways. If she fell, both she and Grace were dead.

P
ain shot up Eleanor’s ankle as she raced away from the savage. Her knee gave way. She leaned hard right, holding tightly to Grace with one arm and flailing the other for balance. Compensating for the twist, she hopped twice on the other foot, giving her enough time to brace for the shock of putting her full weight on the wrenched ankle.

But not enough. Agony stabbed.

She cried out—yet didn’t stop. She raced up the cabin stairs, biting back a scream. The savage was maybe five yards away. She wasn’t sure, and she most definitely wasn’t stopping to count.

Flying across the threshold, she whisked Grace to safety and slammed the door shut. She threw the wooden bar into the slot, locking it into place. A great crash smacked the door, rumbling the wood in the frame. Her hands shook as she lifted them to her face. She’d secured it, but barely in time.

Oh God, thank You.

She leaned against the wall, giving in to the horrific realization that she and Grace had nearly been taken by an Indian. If she listened hard enough, she’d hear the man’s breathing on the other side of the door.

No, not breath.

She froze.

A voice. A deep one, placid yet commanding.
“Ipa.”

“Ee-no-lee,” Grace sang back. The girl ran to the window and jumped up and down. The top of her little head only reached the sill, yet she bobbed in earnest hope that maybe the next jump would allow her a view.

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat. The window! How to lock that? Not that a man’s body could fit through the opening—unless the man removed a tomahawk and hacked it into a larger hole.

“Tatsu’hwa! Ipa!”

Her jaw dropped. No! How? Only Samuel called her that. The name sounded harsh, wrong, blasphemous coming from anyone else. Had this man tortured the name from Samuel then killed him?

A hundred questions bombarded her, punching her backward, toward the table where her pistol sat. Her gaze bounced between window and door, window and door, as she reached back for her firearm.

“Grace.” She coaxed an even tone to her voice. “Come here, love. Come to me.”

The girl continued jumping, keeping time to her song. “Ee-no-lee!”

A brown face appeared in the open window. Blue dots stretched from one cheek to the other, spanning the bridge of his nose. His shiny black hair was pulled back, a feather hanging off one ear.

Eleanor clicked the hammer halfway. “Grace!”

The girl turned.

And the man shoved his arm through the window, baring the underside of his forearm for her to see.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes.

A scar violated his smooth, brown muscle. The skin puckered in a line, in exactly the same place and—yes—the same arm as Samuel’s. First the name, now this? What did it mean?

He pulled back his arm and looked down at Grace. “Ipa.”

The girl ran to the door.

“No!” Eleanor lowered the pistol and raced to pull the child away.

Too late.

Grace planted two chubby hands on the latch and jumped, forcing open the lock.

The door swung open. The man walked in. Grace wrapped her arms around the leg not covered in blood.

Eleanor pulled the cock wide.

The man shook his head, his voice a warning.
“Alewisdodi.”

She fingered the trigger. The pistol shook, or maybe she did. Shooting at trees was one thing. This was a man’s life, a soul—