Holding on to Heaven (25 page)

The deadly tone in the man's voice caused her to shudder. "Don't even think about it, bitch. See that squaw over there?"

Lauren turned her head to the canoe abreast of theirs.

"Her name is Knife Killer and she'd like nothing better than to gut you." She felt the paddle between the soft flesh of her shoulder blades. "Do you get my meaning?" A vicious laugh echoed across the muddy waters of the river.

She turned once to look behind them and closed another chapter from this hellish book of nightmares.

* * * *

Creed left with two horses. A man needed two when traveling far and fast. The gray he bought from the army when he left Virginia had earned his respect. Well trained, the beast warned his master when horses or riders approached by laying his ears flat against his head. The brown gelding, a survivor from Mason's corral, would serve as a mount for Lauren or an alternate for him if things went south. No telling what lay ahead of him, but if it was anything resembling what he just left, he had to be prepared. He knew one thing only; he couldn't allow himself to think about not finding her alive.

The countryside lay in a pitiless rain, adding to his discomfort from a lack of sleep. The smell of death hung in the air and set his nerves on edge, yet it was all he could do to stay in the saddle. He focused on memories of Lauren, her spirited nature and beguiling smile, her beauty, and the passion that spilled from every pore in her body. He flinched at the thought of what they might be doing to her. Whoever
they
were now.

The mounts sped across the prairie and everything meshed together in his mind: the first time he saw her sprawled in the mud; her graceful body floating across the dance floor; the fire in her eyes when angry. Mostly he recalled the clean, crisp scent of her damp hair when he pulled her into his arms. He couldn't shake this love he held for her even if she had married his brother the minute he left.

Damn. He shouldn't have gone off to war and left her behind. What had he been thinking? If she ran off, he’d assume she held little regard for him. It wasn't really that simplistic. He had no choice because of Finn, but God, he'd made such a mess of things! He let his parents down too. One salvation remained—Pa, Finn, Minnie and Brand were together now, smiling down on them. Half of his family had left the earth in less than six months, and the sorrow branding his soul became too much to bear at times.

And the baby¾Finn's namesake. Lauren had a baby while he was gone? Memories from their two blissful days together ran through his mind. How could it have meant so little to her? He had to put such thoughts and questions from his mind now, concentrate on finding her. Even if she had fucked his brother the minute he left for the war, he had to bring her home. Then he'd show her the depth of his rage.

Lauren would have a hard time dealing with Mason's death. Mace had played an important role in carving out the new territory and he'd miss him immensely. Finally, he was forced to come to terms with Brand's death and face the grief-stricken widow's despair when he told her. She must have loved him. She married him, had a child with him. Hell, what did he expect? A woman like Lauren McCain would never be waiting for him with open arms. Fuck, she'd married his brother! If she stood before him right now, he didn't know if he'd kiss her first and then slap her, or slap her first and then kiss her.

Against the pouring rain, he pulled the poncho over his head. He had to face his demons—guilt over Finn's death, guilt he'd been away from his family when all hell broke loose. The hardest demon to face snickered at him from somewhere deep inside.
The renegades have Lauren now, and
everyone knows what savages do to white women.

He’d seen a lot of death, saw it call many from the battlefield. He saw men with their limbs blown away, their heads half-torn off, blood and guts oozing from open wounds in their stomachs, but nothing had prepared him for what he'd seen in the last two days. This battle was unexplainable, senseless. The killing of innocent women and children accomplished nothing. They weren't a part of this war or any other war. This battle would never have happened if the army had done right by the natives.

Another demon mocked him—rage. It seeped out his pores, twisted through his gut until he didn't know who he hated more, the Indians, the government, or
her
. He couldn't think about hate right now. It would only cloud his thinking. He had to find her, and somehow, he had to convince this tracker to help him.

He stopped beneath the gnarled arms of an oak to feed the horses and grab a corn pone from his saddlebag. Although soggy and tasteless, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten and slammed it down. He watched the gelding chomp down the oats. The horse had done a fine job of keeping up with the gray, even loaded down with food and supplies, extra guns and ammunition. Within minutes, Creed jumped into the saddle again. The rain had moved west and in its wake, the sun did its best to put on a brilliant show. He dug his knees into the mount's side and picked up his pace.

He pulled into a little town called Vernon Center and inquired about the Indian tracker who lived in the nearby woods. Recounting the events of the uprising took precious time from his schedule, but the town folk were hungry for recent news.

In the local tavern, he spoke to a man who knew Peter Pa and wrote down directions for him. "They're good people, live off the land near the river," the man said. "The tracker helps folks 'round here find wandering livestock, and one time, a lost child. He's married to a white woman¯quite a looker¯and they live with old man Peterson, a Norwegian who settled here years ago."

Creed downed his brandy and asked, "Is it true what they say, he's the best tracker in these parts?"

The stranger nodded. "Mister, if you want to find someone, he's your man. There's none better, and I swear on the Good Book, he could find a buzzard in a Minnesota blizzard. He knows the land east to Wisconsin, west to Iowa, and north all the way to Canada."

"Thanks for the information." Creed threw his money on the bar and left.

He followed the Blue Earth River from Vernon Center, stopping only to look at the directions the stranger scratched on a piece of paper. Six miles south of town, he came across the small rustic cabin. A trail of smoke rose from the chimney and a lean-to served as a shelter for three fine steeds. A dozen chicken and turkeys ran loose in the yard accompanied by a shaggy, mean-looking mixed breed dog whose sole pleasure seemed to come from chasing them around the property.

The canine stopped his chase and turned to Creed. He growled, a deep guttural snarl that boasted a pair of long, white fangs. His ears blew flat against his head, and his body clung to the ground as if ready to spring into action at the slightest twitch from the human. Creed held his mount in check and assessed the canine's heritage. Part sheepdog and setter, he guessed, but whatever the mongrel's parentage, he didn't like strangers. Creed had no desire to challenge him, certain the dog would come out of the melee the winner.

A man walked toward him from the lean-to. Dressed in weathered buckskins that hugged his frame as if made just for him, he struck a noble pose.

He nodded, his demeanor calm yet cautious when he nodded and gave a command to the hound. "Blue Boy, come."

The dog relaxed his menacing stance and trotted toward the Indian, his eyes still locked on Creed.

"Doesn't like outsiders," the man said. "It's safe to get down from your horse now."

Creed dismounted, pulled the canteen from the saddle horn and took a long drink.

"You looking for someone?" The bronze-skinned man spoke remarkable English for a native. Handsome by most accounts, his features were balanced and proportionate. His dark eyes complemented the color of his hair, black and shiny like the raven's wing.

"Yep." Creed pulled the directions from his pocket. "If you live here, I think I found him."

Creed jumped when someone walked from the cabin and settled into a rocking chair on the porch. The elderly man cocked his head toward them as if listening intently.

"These directions from someone in town?"

Creed nodded toward the porch. "Someone who knows the old man."

"You've been riding hard."

"And fast."

"Come up to the house; take a load off your feet." The Indian spoke to the man on the porch. "Peter Pa, ask Sage to bring cool water."

Creed followed him toward the porch, half-listening when the old man called out softly to someone inside. "Sage, a visitor comes."

A woman's voice, soft and vaguely familiar answered. "Be right out."

Creed shook his head. He'd been up too long without sleep. Her voice flooded him with memories. Attributing it to fatigue, he turned to the Indian. "You're the tracker, aren't you?"

The man patted the mongrel on the head. "Some might say that, yes. Don't track much anymore." He nodded toward the cabin. "This place keeps me busy enough. What are you tracking?"

Creed didn't realize how tired he was until he got off the horse. He brushed his hands through his hair and blew air out his mouth. "A woman."

The Indian shook his head. "If a woman wants to leave, a man ought to let her go."

"It's not like that." His voice sounded flat. "Kidnapped by the Dakota several days back during the uprising along the river. I plan to find her and bring her home."

"We heard about that," the old man said, rising to his feet. "Got mighty bloody, they say."

Creed turned his head in the direction of the voice, guessing the man called Peter Pa had risen from the chair.

"Worse than bloody. Over five hundred settlers and soldiers killed, their homes torched. Many have left the settlements to find a safe place, a place where they don't have to worry about Indians..." He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "Sorry, I'm not thinking straight right now."

The brave waved off his comment.

"Course, the government should shoulder most of the blame," Creed continued. "Personally, I don't give a damn who started this uprising. I'm only concerned about one thing¾finding the woman."

The Indian studied him. "Can't say I blame you."

"I'm glad you feel that way. It should be easier to plead my case."

The tracker smiled. "A few renegade bands have passed through here in the last few days heading for Dakota Territory or Canada with the army in hot pursuit. They're fearful of returning to their villages."

Creed jumped in. "You ever tracked into Canada?"

The man eyed him long and hard. "How'd you get all those cuts to your arms and head, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Let's just say I wasn't picking daisies when Sioux attacked." Creed turned and headed for his horse. The conversation grew worse by the minute. Here he stood, asking an Indian to track down Indians who took a woman that didn't even belong to him."

"Whoa, hold on there now. I didn't say I wouldn't help you, but either way, you need to rest. For the record, if someone took my woman, I wouldn't care what color they were."

Creed had a hard time speaking the words. They pained him to hear them. "She's not my woman. She's married to my brother."

A long pause fell between them before the tracker spoke. "To answer your question, I've been to Canada a few times. Tracking there is no different than here."

"My brother, her husband, was killed when the Sioux stormed New Ulm." He felt his body tense. They attacked her home, killed her uncle, wounded her aunt, and took her captive."

"I’m sorry for your loss."

"Biddle saw the Indians take her." Christ, his voice sounded detached. "He heard them say they were going to sell her to French traders."

"They'll be traveling by day up the Minnesota until it meets the Mississippi and most likely, they'll camp at night on the banks." The tracker looked off into the distance.

"I wouldn't know," Creed said. "If I did, I wouldn't be here. I'm willing to pay whatever you want." Creed wasn't pleading, not yet anyway, just laying out the facts.

"I don't track for money. I have everything I need right here. I track to find people or animals that are lost¾not kidnapped¾or to hunt food for those who are hungry."

"She's lost and powerful hungry."

A smile lit up the bronze features. "The odds of you getting her back are slim. You should know that before you set out." He said it softly, studying him as he spoke.

He'd beg now if he had to. "There's no one else and they've got two days on me already."

A woman emerged from the cabin balancing a tray with three glasses of water. A toddler hung off her left hip¾a girl. Another child, slightly taller but about the same age, clung to her leg. With her face turned toward the old man, she set the tray down.

Like the tracker, she wore buckskin pants and a shirt. A long necklace fashioned out of intricately braided wheat stalks and adorned with multi-colored trade beads hung from her slender neck. Matching the brave's, a tattoo of a small moon rested just above her right wrist joint. He saw it when she set the tray down. Creed knew the Winnebago liked to tattoo their bodies. They would scratch open their skin and rub it with charred wood. He assumed the moon held a symbolic meaning for the woman and the tracker.

She spoke to the old man. "Grandfather, would you hold Mataya for me?"

He took the child eagerly, and just as eagerly, the girl reached out for him. The small boy stared at Creed and then smiled. The woman patted him on the head, "Go stand by Grandpa for a minute, Storm, our friend must be thirsty."

Creed's jaw dropped and the world spun. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Indian walk slowly toward his woman.

She spoke to him now, looked right at him. "Let me know if you need more water." His body tightened, and he realized his mouth still hung open. "Is there something wrong?" she asked.

Creed stumbled for words. "I... forgive me, it's just-it's just, you look like her."

His mind raced. How could it be? The woman standing on the porch looked exactly like Lauren¾sounded like her too. The clothes were entirely different, but the height and weight were the same, the features of her face a mirror image. Her dark skin could be from the sun, and the waist-length hair was identical, differentiated only by what held it in place. Pulled back and tied with a rawhide strip rather than a ribbon, loose tendrils spilled from her forehead, giving the fine-features a soft look¯just like Lauren's. Damn, the unforgiving sun bored down on him. A wave of dizziness washed over him. He looked for a chair.