Whispering Hills of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 3) (12 page)

“That bastard better not have laid a hand on Kelly,” McGuffin swore.

It was the first thing the man had said that William entirely agreed with.

“There’s no sign of a struggle,” Sam said.

“Let’s see how long ago they were here,” Bear suggested. He dismounted and strode over to a fresh pile of horse manure. His expression grew serious as he studied the dung, moving the round clumps on the top aside until his fingers were in the middle of the pile. A half smile crossed his face. “They just left, judgin’ by the freshness of these droppings. They’re still a wee bit warm,” he said and then stood, grabbing a handful of leaves to wipe his fingers on.

Still mounted on Smoke, William spun the stallion around and took off at a gallop up the trail. He soon heard the other three men following close behind him.

His determination to reach Kelly before her captor could harm her surged though him with the force of a tidal wave. Even
running at his fastest, Smoke could not gallop fast enough to suit him.

If the bastard had hurt her, he would soon be a dead man.

William clung to the belief that she would be unharmed—that he would reach her in time. But even if she was unharmed, this ordeal was the last thing Kelly needed. How far would this second trial set her back?

McGuffin trailed behind William and his brothers, struggling to keep up with their superior mounts. His old horse couldn’t stand this pace for long, and would start slowing soon. But he wanted to be there when they caught up to Kelly. He had to be there. As her father, it was his duty to protect her and by God, he would from now on. He’d done a lousy job of it so far. He knew that now. The prospect of losing Kelly for good had woke him up. He couldn’t stand even the thought of her dying too.

Losing her mother changed his life in ways he just now understood. Kelly looked so much like her mother, he could hardly stand to look at his daughter. She remained a constant painful reminder of his loss. He’d loved Kelly’s mother with his entire soul and when she died, his soul seemed to die too. Only one thing kept him alive at all—whiskey. It fueled his sorrow just enough to keep his soul from dying.

Kelly was right. His life spun around in a negative cycle, again and again. Could he break the pattern? Could he become a real father again? Affection for his daughter gripped his heart. He loved Kelly, he knew that, but could he accept her as a loving father should? Could he put aside how she not only looked just like her mother, but sounded and acted like her too? Their voices were identical—soothing and infinitely compassionate. When Kelly
spoke, the gentle softness in her voice only hardened his heart. The only thing he wanted to hear were words of love from his beloved wife. But death silenced her lovely voice forever.

And Kelly’s eyes, serenely wise and beautiful, gazed back at him just like her mother used to. Their soft violet color gleamed with intelligence and a proud spirit. But in Kelly’s eyes, he also often glimpsed pity and a burning faraway look. Her generous nature pitied him. But he had provided her with only hard disappointments. He didn’t deserve her. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to get far away from him. No wonder she had left.

It made his heart clench.

And now, he had also caught a glimpse of pain and fear in her eyes. What had happened to her at the cabin? He’d been so concerned about getting her to leave with him, that he never gave her a chance to answer his question.

McGuffin suddenly realized that during his musing, he’d fallen even further behind. He could barely see them in the distance and as his horse slowed to a walk, they disappeared completely from view.

His eyes clouded with visions of the past and he found himself speaking aloud to the love of his life, his head bowed. “Oh my darling, please forgive me. I’ve treated our daughter miserably. I can only pray for God’s mercy on my miserable remorseful soul. And I pray for Kelly now. That whoever took her will inflict no harm and that William and his brothers will indeed rescue her. I also pray that she will someday understand why I shunned her. Why….”

His words trailed off when his heavy tears slipped down his cheeks and his blurred eyes cleared.

Indians surrounded him. They were not the same natives they’d encountered earlier. These appeared to be Cherokee.

Dear God, help me…please. Help me live to see my daughter again.

His heart nearly stopped in his chest as their sharp eyes bored into him.

William glanced back over his shoulder. Sam and Bear rode just behind him, their mounts maintaining his thunderous pace. But where was McGuffin? He peered down the trail and saw nothing. “What happened to Kelly’s father?” he yelled.

“He fell further and further behind us. His mount couldn’t keep up,” Sam shouted back.

William turned his attention back to the trail and studied it as far as he could see, fervently hoping to spot something. But as yet, he’d seen no sign of Kelly or her abductor. They could not afford to go back for Kelly’s father or slow their pace. He wouldn’t stop until he caught up to Kelly. McGuffin would just have to fend for himself.

“Ye need to slow down a wee bit, man,” Bear yelled. “Let the horses rest. They’re tiring and we willna catch the lass if we kill them.”

“No!” William called back. “She’s just ahead. I can feel her.”

And his instinct proved true. There they were.

McGuffin’s stomach knotted with fear. He struggled not to let his panic show. His pulse beat erratically as a quick and disturbing thought entered his head. If he died now, he would never have a
chance to ask Kelly’s forgiveness or to be the father he could be. The misgivings shattered his heart. He wanted to cry. Not from fear. From regret.

One of the Indians moved out in front of the others. A large man, he carried a Kentucky rifle and a knife hung from his neck in a beaded sheath. A straight red pin about four inches across pierced his nose and numerous earrings hung from both ears. His polished shaved head gleamed in the morning light under a cluster of bright feathers perched on the top of his head. The native’s manner, cool and aloof, chilled his blood as the Indian moved his horse closer.

As a trapper in Virginia, he often traded with natives for his safety. But here in Kentucky, the Indians didn’t know him and they were far more unpredictable. Paralyzing apprehension coursed through him as he remembered the horrifying stories about what happened to some white men on this trail. All these natives would leave would be his mutilated smoldering body.

McGuffin felt impaled by the brave’s penetrating steady gaze.

A painful silence loomed between them.

If only he knew sign language, like Sam. Terror made his chest tighten as he tried to speak. “I…I…am here in peace,” he began. With his weapons stolen, he had to be.

At his words, the one in front held up his hand, silencing him. He felt as if that hand had closed around his throat. The air grew tight with tension and his escalating terror.

The contemptuous look in the leader’s eyes told him the Indian knew of his fear. Then the brave’s eyes hardened and something disturbing replaced his smoldering look. He gestured to two of the other natives. They dismounted and yanked him
from his lathered mount, their grips around his arms tight and forceful. The horse trotted off as the two pushed him toward a nearby tree that stood off by itself. The strong scent of the braves burned the inside of his nose and throat.

But that was the least of his worries.

He breathed in shallow, rapid gasps, certain he was about to die, as the two braves tied first his hands behind him and then his chest and feet to the tree with rawhide. Panic rioted through him, making him tremble. He stood there, knees shaking, powerless to stop this. What could he do? What could he say? They wouldn’t understand him even if he could come up with something to tell them. Never had he felt so helpless, so alone.

The large group of Cherokee, at least twenty in number, all dismounted and began yelping.

Their shrill primitive yaps stabbed at his heart, each chilling cry more horrifying than the last. The sound was so dreadful, so alarming, he almost wished they would kill him and be done with it. They seemed to be celebrating. Why? Oh dear God, they were reveling his impending death. Horror gripped him, stronger than ever. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch them any longer.

“Little Turkey, First Beloved Man of the Cherokee,” a man bellowed.

McGuffin opened his eyes and turned toward the deep voice.

The magnificently dressed older man, with thick snowy white hair, astride his tall horse, held himself with an air of distinction and pride. He rode right into the group of natives. Was the man daft? They would kill him too.

“Why do the Chickamauga Cherokee tie this man?” the man asked the native’s leader, at the same time translating in sign
language.

McGuffin thought he detected a note of censure in the man’s voice and eyes. Whoever he was, he had guts or he was just plain crazy.

The native, who must be Little Turkey, spoke up, answering in a clipped voice.

McGuffin recognized only one word. Boone. Could this be Daniel Boone?

“Beloved Man of the Cherokee, you know that killing this man would be an unwise violation of our treaty. He is but one man. Is killing him worth risking raising the anger of all the whites?” His voice was calm, his hands unwaveringly steady as he signed the words.

Little Turkey’s lips puckered with what seemed like annoyance.

The white-haired man turned to McGuffin. “Sir who are you and what are you doing here?” His tone was deadly serious.

“My companions and I are desperately trying to reach my daughter Kelly who was abducted last night. Sheriff Wyllie and his two brothers are in pursuit of her captor now. I fell behind because my horse is old,” McGuffin explained rapidly, struggling to keep his voice from shaking. “Please help me. I believe they intend to kill me.”

“Indeed they do, Sir. You were mere minutes from having your scalp and manhood lifted. I know what it is like to have a daughter abducted. A Cherokee-Shawnee raiding party captured my daughter Jemima and her friends, the Callaway girls, but we succeeded in rescuing them. I will do my best to help you. But say nothing and at least try to appear brave. A white man’s fear is incendiary to the native man.”

The Colonel dismounted and approached Little Turkey and then seemed to explain what McGuffin had just told Boone. Little Turkey’s dark eyes widened as Boone spoke. Then for a moment, the Indian leader looked over at him quizzically. Would the brave believe Boone?

McGuffin could tell that these Indians held a high opinion of the Colonel by the way they regarded the aging frontier fighter and Kentucky hero. Boone first entered Kentucky about three decades ago. It was common knowledge that in that time, he’d earned the respect of not just the early pioneers, but the natives as well. He couldn’t believe his good fortune that Boone had come along when he did. Perhaps God had heard his prayer and sent Boone to his rescue.

To his astonishment, Little Turkey motioned for the other Indians to mount up, then the brave grasped Boone’s arm and held it for a few seconds before releasing it and smoothly swinging up onto his own horse.