The Captive Heart (4 page)

Suddenly the man’s gaze settled beyond Samuel’s shoulder, and he lifted a finger to his lips.

Instinct squeezed Samuel’s gut. Slowly, he removed his bow, accepting the arrow Inoli held outstretched. He nocked it and pivoted in silence. Twenty-five yards off, a small patch of tawny hide stood out against the dull green of a woods in desperate need of rain. In one fluid movement, he raised the bow, pulling the string. He narrowed his eyes, aiming just above chest cavity, and—

A squalling cry rent the forest air. He threw down the bow, unsure what irritated him most—his daughter’s wail or Inoli’s laughter.

“You need a woman, no matter what color skin.”

Unlacing the sling he’d created to tote around little Grace, Samuel slipped out his arms one at a time and shifted her to his front instead of her usual perch on his back. Tears sprouted at the corners of her eyes. Her mouth opened wider. Hunting was definitely over for the day.

“We’ll camp here.” Cradling Grace in one arm, he pulled out a salted piece of jerky for her to chew on. Her chubby fingers grabbed the chunk and popped it into her mouth, quieting her screams. “Guess she was hungry.”

“As will we all be if hunting continues at this rate.” Inoli began stomping down a flattened area.

Pressing a kiss to Grace’s head, Samuel ignored his friend’s warning, focusing instead on his daughter’s downy curls—the only softness in his life.

The wagon lurched around a corner. Eleanor jerked with the movement, jostling Molly, whose head rested in her lap. Molly’s lips parted, but no sound came out—or maybe it did. Hard to tell with the grind of wheels against gravel, the shouts of hawkers selling their wares, and Biz, who gave a running dialogue of the wonderful, wide streets of Charles Towne.

“Another redcoat!” She wiggled her eyebrows at Eleanor. “Wonder if I knows him. Din’t think to see so many of that vermin over here.”

Another bump jolted the cart, and Eleanor flung out her hand, grabbing the side. “Perhaps you ought sit down, Biz. Have you not had your fill of attention from the law?”

“I got nothin’ to be afeard of. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” A slow smile spread across her face. “Mostly.”

Biz’s hand disappeared inside the ridiculous waistcoat she refused to take off. When it reappeared, two peppermint balls sat in her palm. “Like one?”

Eleanor shook her head. “How did you manage those?”

Her grin grew. “Snagged ’em off one of the officers we passed down at the docks.”

“You do know that stealing is wrong, don’t you?”

“Oh, it weren’t stealing. He lent ’em to me.” Her face tipped to a provocative angle. How often did the girl get in trouble with that look? “I asked him real nice like.”

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “We hardly had time to catch our breath between the ship and this wagon.”

“I din’t say it were a lengthy conversation.”

“I suppose you merely whispered it under your breath as your fingers slipped into his pocket?”

Biz’s eyes sparkled. “You’re a smart one, you are.”

A gust of hot air whipped a piece of hair across Eleanor’s lips, but by the time she swiped it away, Biz had turned, precluding further comments. The afternoon sun beat down, relentless despite the breeze. She’d heard of the browned skin of Colonial women. Now she understood why as she dared nudge her sleeves up a little farther.

“Din’t think to see that.” Biz’s voice was tight, strained in a way incongruous to her devil-may-care exterior.

“What?” Taking care not to disturb Molly overmuch, Eleanor leaned sideways, craning her neck.

“Over there.”

Her gaze followed the length of Biz’s outstretched arm. Ten, maybe fifteen paces off the side of the wagon, a young boy lay in the mouth of an alley, red trickling from his nose. Another lad, held by the throat, kicked his feet in the air. The man holding him shouted in his face. All wore nothing but rags.

Eleanor stared, unable to pull her gaze away though desperately wanting to. The little boy’s legs slowed, and as the wagon rolled past the horrid scene, they quit moving altogether. His body hit the dirt, next to the other.

“No!” Did that raspy cry belong to her? Eleanor slapped her hand to her mouth.

Biz sank to the wagon’s bed. “I thought…. Well, I hoped….” She lifted glassy eyes to Eleanor. “I can see it ain’t to be no better here.”

The dullness in Biz’s gaze choked Eleanor as tangibly as the brute had squeezed the little boy’s neck. Yet how to impart encouragement from an empty well? She sucked in a breath, praying for wisdom on the exhale. “You do not have to be a victim of circumstance, Biz. This is your opportunity to change the course of your life. You are a housemaid now. There is dignity in such a position.”

“A new life, eh? There’s a thought.” Drawing her knees up, Biz wrapped her arms around her legs and lowered her head.

Molly groaned, twisting on Eleanor’s lap. Though her hair clung to her temples, it was hard to tell if the fever returned. Eleanor’s own shift stuck to her skin beneath the Charles Towne sun.

Balling up her shawl, she eased Molly’s head to the bundled fabric, then scooted to the front of the wagon, where Mr. Beebright held the reins.

“Mr. Beebright, it would be to Molly’s benefit if we spent a night or two at an inn. I feel sure she would regain her strength and—”

“Pig’s teeth, woman!” Beebright scowled at her over his shoulder. “This t’aint a pleasure ride. I’m on a schedule, and erring on the hide-tanning side of being late. Greeley will see to that.”

“And how will Greeley feel when you pull into town with only two women instead of three and discovers he paid for nothing?” She lifted her chin, though the bumping of the wagon made her teeth grind.

Beebright’s good eye squinted. “She that bad off?”

“I fear so.”

For a moment, he rubbed his lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Oh, how lovely it would be if they all might rest their heads on a pillow—or even a simple cot—beneath the roof of an inn this night.

Beebright leaned to the side and spit off the edge of the wagon. “See to it she lives, then. I’m holdin’ you responsible, missy.”

He faced forward, apparently finished with the conversation.

But she wasn’t. “I am no nursemaid, sir.”

“You are now. You just signed a contract for it.”

“You can hardly expect me to—”

The wagon jerked to a stop. Beebright turned. If he’d possessed two good eyes, she’d have been dead on the spot from the rage darkening his gaze. “If you don’t learn to keep yer trap shut and do as yer told, ye’ll have a far worse time of it with Samuel Heath than I ever will with Greeley. Yer not in England anymore.”

She swallowed, the truth of his words an ugly reminder of her situation. It was easy to tell Biz she didn’t have to be a victim of circumstance—but quite another thing to live out those words in her own life.

B
reaking the cadence of stone shushing against metal, Samuel set down his tomahawk and whetstone, then reached to work out a knot in his shoulder. Even after his trek with Inoli last week and several days of hunting on his own, all he had to show for it were sore muscles and a skinny rabbit sizzling outside on the spit. Next to him, Grace slept soundly in her crib, and why not? She’d had the ride of her life strapped against his back, bouncing up and down, scaring away prey with her happy squeals.

He peeked over at her, dark eyelashes fanning against her pink cheeks, a wet thumb hanging half out of her mouth. In spite of himself, half a grin tugged his lips. Though he’d wanted a son, he wouldn’t trade his sweet girl for all the lads in the whole blasted South Carolina colony.

A late afternoon cross-breeze sallied in the open door. He shot to his feet, sniffing. There, almost imperceptible, hiding amid the waft of fat and smoke from his supper, he inhaled something musky. Maybe even a little tangy. He cocked his head. A blend of earth, sweetness—

And danger.

He strode to the door, schooling the urge to utter a curse as he would have in the past. Next time he saw Inoli, his friend would have ringing ears by the time he finished with him. The man meddled more than Grandmother.

Leaning against the porch timber, he waited. The hare sizzled over coals in the clearing that ran along the front of the house. Beyond the yard, a maze of hickory and pine painted a background of greens. His gaze slid to the east, where the creek lumbered downhill.

The beginnings of a magnificent headache rapped at his temples as he sighted a graceful figure cresting the embankment. Rays of sunlight reached through the canopy, highlighting the woman’s every step. She wore her black hair long and loose, like a queen’s mantle, the determination of her stride regal as she drew closer, adding to her imperial aura.

He folded his arms. “What are you doing here, Running Doe?”

“It is said Ya’nu needs a woman.” She ascended the few steps and stopped a breath in front of him, lifting her face to his.

Out of habit, he shook his head, letting a swath of hair cover the scarred side of his cheek. “I told Inoli that’s been taken care of.”

She shrugged one shapely shoulder, then shimmied past him and stepped into his house uninvited.

He pushed off from the timber and followed, his gut clenching. This would not end well.

Inside, Running Doe’s dark eyes darted from his bed to Grace’s crib, then on to the stacks of pelts against one wall and crates against the other. Finally she turned in a circle, arms spread wide. “I see no woman.”

Her tone challenged, as did the flash in her eyes. He knew that look, the one a woman gave just before her heels dug in. Once again he folded his arms, remaining in the safety of the open door. Sometimes flight was the better option.

So was silence. He said nothing.

“What I see”—her eyes narrowed—“is a
sa’gwali digu ‘lanahi’ta
, too stubborn to accept what the elders have spoken.”

He sucked in a breath. He’d maimed men for lesser insults. Inwardly, he counted to ten in English, then again in Cherokee before he spoke. “Go home, Running Doe. I am not the man for you.”

Like one of the mountain lions that roamed the Blue Ridge, she put one foot in front of the other, her gaze fastened on his as she neared. She pulled his hands loose and set them squarely on her wide hips, locking them in place with her hands atop. “But I am the woman for you. Why do you fight it?”

Her body flamed beneath her buckskin sheath, he could feel it, as relentless as an August afternoon. Ahh, but she was a beauty, all soft and warm. It’d been a year since he’d lain with his wife. A year of cold need and loneliness.

Running Doe rose to her toes, her breath brushing against his lips. She leaned closer, and—

He pulled away, horrified at how easy it was to teeter on the thin line between saint and sinner. She followed his move, but he held out a hand, staving her off. “You are a fine woman, Running Doe, but I will not have you.”

A tempest brewed in the black of her eyes. “Yet you will take a white wife.” She aimed the words like a musket ball, straight at his heart.

He grabbed her arms, subduing the urge to squeeze lest he leave behind angry bruises. “Do not think to question me, woman. You know what I’ve done for the
Ani’yunwiya.
What the English have taken from me. This isn’t about skin.”

“Then what is it?”

Her question cut—deep. Too deep.

He growled and released her, stalking over to where Grace yet slept, her chest rising in an even rhythm. His fingers itched to brush back her hair, touch the silky tresses, and root himself to the reason for his decision. He’d faced bears, Shawnee bent on a killing spree, famine, and disease. Not one of them had cornered him so thoroughly as this innocent one. To give her the best life—one he’d never known—it was either let her go for another to raise, or marry a woman acceptable in the world’s eyes.

Both of which tasted like blood in his mouth. He’d never felt so trapped in all his life.

He turned back to Running Doe, putting his whole life into three simple words. “It’s about Grace.”

For a moment, she looked like a fish out of water, her mouth working open and shut. “You choose to favor a white woman you don’t know when you could have me, all for the sake of a child?”

He clenched his jaw, barely able to force words past the anger closing his throat. “I’d give my life for her.”

Running Doe laughed, without humor or mercy. “And so you shall, foolish one, for no English will give herself to a man without he first giving himself to her.” She sashayed over to him, her voice deepening to a husky tone. “I make no demands, Ya’nu.”

“Maybe not, but I do.” He strode away, thundering stomps shaking the floorboards, and pointed toward the door. “Go, Running Doe.
Ha!
”

She strutted up to him, poking a sharp finger into his chest. “You will regret this day.” Then she turned and quitted him, as silently as she’d come.

Samuel watched the forest eat her up. True, there were many days he regretted, yet this wouldn’t be one.

But what of the day he married again, to a woman he’d never met?