The Captive Heart (37 page)

He grunted. “Aye, but I didn’t fare so well that time.”

For a while they rode in silence, well past Breakpass Thicket. Tedious colors of brown and withered green dulled the eyes. The movement of Wohali’s sure steps hypnotized as well—until the horse skittered sideways from an unexpected partridge darting onto the trail.

Red Bird jerked up her head. Another yawn cooed from her, and she stretched. “You never finished your story. Your other encounter?”

A smile twitched his lips. He’d chosen a perfect mother for Grace in this one—thanks to God alone. His daughter wouldn’t get away with much under Red Bird’s care. The woman didn’t forget a thing.

With a click of his tongue, he urged Wohali past a rare patch of broadleafs—frowning at the scarcity of them. This time of year the greenery ought be abundant, not dried and shriveled.

Pulling his thoughts from useless worry—for truly, he could do naught about a drought—he turned Wohali onto a shortcut toward Newcastle. “Grandmother helped care for me after that bear attack. With my shirt stripped off, she saw the claw necklace, the one you wear now. My mother gave it to me. It was given to her by her mother—my grandmother. The same old woman you met.”

“So, your mother was a native … but your father was Scots-Irish. How on earth did they meet?”

He glanced back, and as he suspected, fine, white teeth nibbled her lower lip. She could think all she liked, but she’d never guess the truth.

Chuckling, he faced forward. “My mother met Abraham Heath down at the Charles Towne docks, where he worked. She was part of a sending party, blessing her father as he crossed the great water.”

“Her father traveled on a ship? My …” Red Bird’s voice trailed off, then grew as she strung together all his words. “But he must’ve been very important.”

“He is.”

“Is?” She leaned forward, as eager as Grace bent on a discovery. “He’s still alive then?”

“Aye.” Once more he turned in the saddle, not wanting to miss the flash of understanding when she added all his information into a tidy sum. “You know him as Attakullakulla.”

“You mean …” Eleanor leaned back and studied Samuel’s brown eyes. Dark, yes. Dangerous? Sometimes. But no unbridled bloodlust gleamed in his like she’d witnessed in that man Miss Browndell had confronted at the council.

Her gaze roamed over his face as it bobbed with the horse’s gait. Samuel’s cheekbones were not as high. His nose not as wide. The hair, lighter, the height and breadth of him larger than the fellow she’d seen at that meeting. No, she must be wrong. Like the fanning of pages in a book, she riffled through memories of the men she’d met in her short time at Keowee. None looked like Samuel.

“Which man was he?” she asked.

“The one who led the council.”

That man … that leader … that fearsome, scarred warrior was Samuel’s grandfather? She gasped, stunned, then chided herself for such a silly response. She should’ve known. Samuel wore authority like a second skin. She’d seen men bend to his will without a word.

“What?” He cocked a rogue brow. “You don’t think I resemble him?”

Humor lifted his lips.

The movement dared her to gaze at that mouth, to remember how it felt to have it pressed against hers, but she turned her face aside and focused on the passing pine and ash. Clearly he’d forgotten the incident, for he’d not made a move to claim another kiss in the four days since. That not only irked her, it wrapped around her like an unbearable grief.

She frowned. Better to keep her mind on the topic at hand. “You look nothing like the man.”

“True.” He shrugged. “I am the image of my father.”

“Yet you command attention every bit as much as your grandfather.”

His brow raised, as did a flush of heat up her neck. Thankfully he said no more and faced forward again. La! How loose her tongue had become.

A bee buzzed past her cheek, and she reared back, grabbing hold of Samuel’s waist to keep from falling. It was a familiar hold, the ride of his solid muscles moving beneath her fingers, one she enjoyed—maybe too much. But even more intimate were the glimpses of his past. He didn’t always answer her questions, but when he did, it painted him—his life—in colors that captivated.

She had no idea if he’d share further, but she was hungry to hear more. “Why did you not stay at Keowee?”

With a cluck of his tongue, he urged Wohali onward. By now she was certain the callouses on her behind had grown callouses. Walking might never be the same after this trip.

“I wanted a home. A real home. Living on the streets, well …” His voice blended with the steady beat of the horse’s hooves, and she leaned closer, loathe to miss a word. “It changes you. Not that I wasn’t grateful for my grandmother’s lodge, but I needed a place to call my own, as selfish as that sounds.”

“No … it does not.”

And surprisingly, it didn’t. His words breathed life into the recent portion of scripture she’d read the night they’d left Grace behind with Biz and the reverend. She thought aloud, trying to make sense of it.

“I think there is a reason Jesus said He went to prepare a place for us, that His Father’s house has many mansions. Not that we were not created to fellowship with others, for we are, but perhaps the desire to have a space of one’s own is but a shadow of what is to come, what we will experience in eternity. A place just for us, created by the Creator. Some, like you, feel it more keenly.”

He reined Wohali to a halt and turned in the saddle. The shadowed look on his face was impossible to read. Was he angry at her candid speech? Annoyed with her impertinence? What had gotten into her, anyway?

His big hand brushed along the curve of her cheek. “You always surprise me, Tatsu’hwa.”

Her heart beat hard against her ribs. The last time he’d touched her like that, looked at her with that heated gleam … she leaned toward him.

He turned and cracked the reins. “Hyah!”

Grabbing his waist to keep from tumbling off, she held tight as the horse sped along the trail, weaving between trees. Thankfully the larger foothills were at their back. She’d expected some kind of reaction from him—but not this.

Eventually they slowed to a less breakneck speed. Her eyelids drooped as she thought on the events of the past few weeks. It seemed like an eternity since she’d tickled little Grace and listened to her giggle. How had the child fared with Biz? Or how had Biz fared with Grace? No doubt they’d both be changed.

The claw necklace poked against her chest, and she twisted it around behind her neck. She could take it off, she supposed, but for some odd reason, that felt disrespectful to the old woman who gave it to her.

She frowned. “Samuel, your grandmother … what will happen to her when she is too old to care for herself? Will you take her in?”

“No.” He shook his head, his long hair brushing against her cheek. “Attakullakulla is many things—stubborn, proud, impetuous—but he will see that she is cared for. As long as he is able.”

The tone of his voice sent a shiver across her shoulders despite the afternoon heat. “That sounds rather ominous.”

“Times are changing.” His words weren’t just a prophecy—they were some kind of accusation.

“What do you mean?”

A sigh rippled the fabric across his back. “Years ago, there was war between the French and English, a fight for this land. I saw no good in siding with either, but the Ani’yunwiya backed the English, leastwise at the beginning. I fought for them, for Attakullakulla. It did not end well.”

The memory of a golden medal in a dirt hole flashed bright as the summer sun, as incongruous an image as the man in front of her. How must it feel to be rewarded by the very ones who’d killed his father? Was that why he kept it tucked away? Emotion clogged her throat. Her heart broke for his loss, what he’d been obliged to do for the sake of integrity. “It must have been hard for you, fighting with those who took your father’s life.”

A muscle on the side of his neck stood out, but his calm voice belied the tension. “Honor always comes at a price, else it would be worthless.”

Honor, indeed. Of all the wealthy and noble men she’d served, not one matched the virtue in this man, clothed in a simple linen shirt, smelling of gunpowder and strength.

The path descended along a now-familiar route. She eased back and squinted past his shoulder. Yes, there was an expected bend in the trail and the large rock she’d nearly banged her foot against when they’d traveled this way a little more than a fortnight ago. The closer they drew to Newcastle, the more anticipation pulled her from her groggy state.

She bounced, more from eagerness than the sideways step of Wohali.

Samuel shot his arm back, holding her in place. “Don’t fall off now. We’re near to home.”

“I am anxious to see Grace,” she admitted. “I have missed her.”

He chuckled. “Me, too.”

But his humor faded, and he glanced over his shoulder, a grave twist to his mouth. “I’ll miss you as well, Tatsu’hwa.”

Fear tasted brassy at the back of her throat, and she swallowed. “What are you talking about?”

He tugged his hat lower, the brim hiding his eyes. “As soon as I see you and Grace home, I’m leaving.”

T
he final rays of sunlight bled away, the day dying like a great beast. Darkness rushed out from the woods like a band of demons, lifting the flesh on Eleanor’s arms. She scooted closer to Samuel on the wagon seat, seeking his protection from nothing but a silly thought.

Surprisingly, Grace didn’t stir. The girl lay limp in her arms, dead to the world. A week and a half with Biz had worn her out. A small smile tugged Eleanor’s lips as she brushed her fingers along the girl’s cheek, following the curve of dark shadows beneath her eyes. Surely it was mercy alone that supplied the reverend with patience to put up with Biz.

Eleanor’s smile faded as the night shadows wrapped around them, especially when she peeked up at the grim set of Samuel’s jaw. Trying to decipher what went on inside that mind of his was impossible, especially with the way he hid his eyes beneath his hat brim and long curtain of hair. For the better part of the last few hours, she’d tried to discover where and why he’d be going on the morrow, but the man simply would not answer.

A sigh slipped past her lips. Why had God made men such mule-headed creatures?

“Six.” His voice rumbled with the wagon wheels.

She frowned up at him. “Sorry?”

“That’s the sixth time you’ve sighed in the past mile.” He glanced down at her. “At that rate, there’ll be no air left in you by the time we turn into the yard.”

“Well.” She squared her shoulders. “Perhaps if you told me—”

“The less you know, the less likely you are to get hurt.”

She jerked her face aside, unable to quell a sudden wave of petulance. “As if that matters.”

“It does.”

She snapped her gaze back to him, but he said nothing more. He slapped the reins, urging Wohali onward, eating up the last stretch of road to home.

When they pulled into the yard, Grace stirred on her lap. A lantern glowed inside the cabin, reaching out the front window like a yellow warning. Eleanor turned to Samuel, about to ask who he thought might be inside, but his big finger rested on her lips, cutting her off. With his other hand, he pulled out his rifle.

Alarm prickled at the nape of her neck—until a grin split Samuel’s face, and he hopped off the seat.

Eleanor peered back at the cabin. The silhouette of a warrior blackened the open door.

“Ee-no-lee!” Grace awoke with a cry and squirmed out of Eleanor’s grasp, clambering off the wagon and tagging her father’s heels.

Eleanor grabbed her skirts and followed. How had the man known they’d return home this night? What kind of otherworldly connection did he and Samuel share?

The men clasped arms at the top of the stairs, exchanging words. Eleanor paused, imprinting the scene on her mind and heart. This cozy cabin. The tall pines hugging the yard in a protective embrace. The warmth of light shining inside and the loamy fragrance on the early evening air. This was more than a little slice of heaven. For a single, breath-stealing moment, it felt like home. What a queer feeling, one she wanted to own, but she suspected that if she reached out, it would slip from her fingers.

Samuel’s growl and subsequent slap of his hat against his thigh grabbed her attention. Whatever Inoli told him was not sitting well. She picked her way up the steps as he ran his hand through his hair.

“Samuel?” She drew close to his side, giving the native a wide berth. Inoli may be a trusted friend, but his solemn-eyed stare and coiled muscles still unnerved her. “Why is Mr. Inoli here?”

The two men exchanged glances. Without a word, Inoli vanished through the cabin door on soundless feet.

Samuel shoved his hat back on his head, lightning flashing in his eyes as he faced her. “Seems McDivitt’s been raising a ruckus while we’ve been gone. Calling in debts. Shooting threats around like buckshot. Inoli feared the man would burn down my house to match the lot in town I wouldn’t sell him.”

“I see.” And she did. She remembered the look in McDivitt’s eyes, crazed and wild. As if Satan himself peered out from the inside. She’d seen a stallion put down once for a gleam of far less madness.