My Savage Heart (The MacQuaid Brothers) (19 page)

“Mary!” Caroline kicked and scratched, trying to free herself from the Indian’s hold. Then from the corner of her eye she saw Mary’s pale face as she lifted the pistol. The gun was aimed at her captor... and her. Above the clamor of yelling Indians, Caroline heard the metallic click. But there was nothing else. No loud boom.

Another Indian came from the side and grabbed the pistol, knocking Mary to the floor as he did. The pregnant woman fell hard.

“Mary! Mary!” Caroline yelled her name over and over as she attempted to free herself. She had to see if her friend was all right. But the Indian held firm, hefting her up against his hip. He carried her, screaming and kicking, into the yard. And everywhere there were more Indians shouting and running about.

Her captor tossed her to the ground and Caroline’s shift rose up about her knees, but she didn’t even notice. He pulled her hands forward and wound a thong around her wrists. She tried not to whimper as he pulled the cords tight. Caroline couldn’t believe what was happening, but she knew it was no nightmare. The smells, the sounds were too real, too awful.

Then from the midst of savages by the sycamore tree came a cry that seemed inhuman. It was blood-curdling, more pitiful and horrible than any she’d ever heard. And it screeched on and on through the night.

Caroline tried to look away, but something compelled her to watch. Then the Indians shifted, and she caught a glimpse of what they’d done to Robert. She sucked in her breath and swallowed. He was bound hand and foot and tied to the tree’s trunk. His broken leg was twisted at an unnatural angle and his other leg was bare beneath his nightshirt.

While she watched, the Indians jabbed and prodded him with pointed sticks. Each time they cut into his swollen flesh, Robert screamed. “Stop it!” Caroline yelled at the Indian standing beside her. She twisted onto her knees and dove forward in the dirt, grabbing at his leg when he paid her no heed.

Her captor stamped his foot, knocking away her hands, and growled something undecipherable at her.

“Make them stop,” she cried again, but he only shrugged and looked away, back to where his fellow raiders tortured Robert. Sobbing, Caroline hunched over on the lawn, wondering if she’d be sick... but unable to look away.

Robert’s screams were weaker now and the savages seemed less willing to simply taunt. Their cries of “
Inadu!
” grew louder. One of the Indians took out his tomahawk and with a loud scream held it high above his head. Before Caroline could look away, he brought it down across Robert’s head. Blood sprayed everywhere as the Indian held up his trophy—Robert’s scalp.

She couldn’t believe what she’d just seen... didn’t want to believe it. Black dots danced in front of Caroline’s eyes; and, with a thud, she fell forward onto the dirt.

She woke with someone pulling on her arms. “Get up,” a guttural voice demanded.

Caroline spit dirt from her mouth and scrambled to her feet. She must have fainted; and, by the looks of her surroundings, she hadn’t been unconscious long. Not nearly long enough. Averting her eyes, Caroline tried not to look toward the tree. Toward the grotesque body that hung limply from its binding.

She wished she could mourn for Robert, but the truth remained that it was too late for him. Caroline twisted to look back toward the house, as her captor pulled her along the path into the woods. There was no sign of Mary.

“Mary?” Caroline stumbled forward until she was even with her captor. He didn’t slow his pace. “What have you done with her?”

Whether he understood her or not, and Caroline couldn’t tell, he ignored her pleas and pushed her forward, to march in front of him. The path was well worn; but beneath her bare feet, the rocks and brambles were bruising. As she walked along, mile after mile, Caroline found herself wishing she’d pulled on her clothes before rushing out to brave the Indians. The result would have been the same, but at least she wouldn’t be so cold and her feet would feel better.

When she found herself thinking of her discomforts, she was ridden with guilt. At least she was alive—cold, hungry, and tired—but alive. That was more than could be said for Robert. And probably Mary.

Caroline could tell the other woman wasn’t with her group. When they stopped for a drink from the creek, she was able to see that. But the Indians must have split up before leaving Seven Pines, for there were only nine traveling together now. Was Mary a hostage of other Indians? Was she, like Robert, dead?

Caroline tried not to believe the latter. But it was hard to keep her hopes up when she was surrounded by savages that told her nothing and forced her to keep going when she was ready to drop from exhaustion.

When they finally did rest, it was with only the shelter of the trees above them. Caroline leaned against the rough bark determined that she would not sleep. Not surrounded by the heathens. But the toll of the day was too much for her; and though she shivered beneath the light linen, it wasn’t long till her head nodded to the side.

Almost immediately she saw it all again as if a series of paintings were stretched before her eyes. The frightening faces painted red and black, the fire, the blood. Always the blood.

And then the screams came, echoing in her mind.

But it wasn’t the noise that woke her. It was the firm pressure held over her mouth. She could barely breathe. Caroline’s eyes popped open, and she bucked, struggling against the hand covering her lower face. But her strength was nearly gone. She fell back onto the hard, leaf-covered ground.

It was very dark, but even through her panic she knew it was the Indian with the scarred face who held her. Her body stiffened as he moved closer to her. “Quiet.” The word was a low threat growled in her ear. With his hand covering her mouth she had no choice but to comply.

Then slowly he released the biting weight of his fingers. When he lifted his hand, Caroline sucked in the cold night air, grateful for the chance. Her breath came in low, painful gasps, but even as starved as her lungs were, she tried not to make noise. Wordlessly her captor had reminded her how vulnerable she was. How dependent upon him for even her next breath.

Still she could not help the whimper that escaped when he let his hand drift down her body. Between her breasts. Past her tied hands to curve at her waist. Oh God no! Fear seized her, and she tried to roll away. But her hair was pinned beneath him, and though pain tore at her scalp she could not escape.

Her heart pounded. She had tried not to dwell on this possibility through the long day. Be thankful you are alive, she kept telling herself. Stay alive for the sake of your child. But always in the darkest recesses of her mind she’d worried about what the Indians might do to her when they stopped for the night.

He jerked her back against his body, his motions rough. Panic built up like water dammed against its flow. Before she would submit to this heathen she would—What? What could she do?

But for now at least, she did not have to find an answer. He simply wrapped his arm about her middle. Hardly daring to breath, she waited for him to touch her again. But he didn’t. When she heard snores vibrating in her ear she knew he was asleep.

Slowly, muscle by muscle, Caroline let herself relax. Her body was pressed to his, a fact she couldn’t overlook. But there was warmth now. If she was to survive she must accept even the smallest advantage.

Caroline closed her eyes. She inched closer to her large captor. His breathing never changed, and she sighed her relief. When she was as comfortable and warm as she could get, Caroline willed herself to sleep. Rest. She needed it. Her baby needed it.

As she drifted toward slumber Caroline imagined she saw Wolf. His sensual lips smiled their approval. He took her hand and led her deeper into oblivion.

It seemed no more than minutes later that she was dragged to her feet, barely awake. Caroline blinked, trying to remember where she was and why. Comprehension swept over her painfully. The Indian she’d come to think of as hers gave her a shove toward a small thicket of trees. She stumbled, but kept her footing. When she glanced back at him, he jerked his head, motioning for her to continue.

He’d done the same last night, giving her a bit of privacy to take care of her bodily functions. Caroline hurried toward a twisting of vines that formed a natural shield.

As she had before, Caroline considered bolting and running away. The urge was so strong she could almost taste it, now that she was out of her kidnapper’s reach. But the inevitability of recapture weighed heavily on her. She was tied and tired, weak from hunger. And though she tried to pay attention yesterday when they left the trail to forge through the woods, Caroline had no idea where she was.

Coupled with the certain knowledge that she couldn’t escape was the taunting fear of what the Indian, would do when she was in his grasp again. In the end she walked resolutely back to him.

This morning she was given a few bites of dried meat before they set out again. The sun, when it finally rose, offered some warmth, though Caroline still shivered constantly.

One step in front of the other. Survival seemed reduced to that. Caroline tried to keep her mind blank but thoughts of Wolf kept surfacing. At first she fought them, but they soon overwhelmed her. She glanced ahead, only to imagine she saw him standing there, musket raised. “I’ve come to rescue you,” he said. “Save you from these savages.”

Her joy was boundless until reason won out. He would never say that. These were his people. He’d told her so often enough. Of course, Caroline couldn’t be sure it was Cherokee who captured her.

Beneath their paint, they looked like the other Cherokee she’d seen, tall, muscular bodies, heads shaved except for the topknot they decorated with feathers. But perhaps all Indians looked like this. To her knowledge Caroline had never seen any others.

Besides, what did it matter? She was their prisoner and there was no one to rescue her. Even if Wolf did learn of the massacre at Seven Pines, he was in The Middle Towns—too far away to help her.

They paused midmorning to drink from a small stream. Caroline fell to her knees on a flat rock by the shore. She had reached the end of her endurance. Even when her Indian nudged her then kicked at her bloodied feet, she couldn’t move.

“Get up,” he said, grabbing her elbows and pulling her to standing. He bent toward her. “Not far now.”

The words offered her just enough hope to push forward.

But his idea of far wasn’t the same as hers. She could barely move by the time they stopped at the head of a valley. Clustered near the river were over a score of cabins, built much like Wolf’s. They were squat, appearing to be single rooms covered with bark. Near the center, on a slight rise was a larger building, circular in shape and covered with dried mud.

It was toward this they walked. The dogs were the first to notice them. They set up a howl that attracted some small boys playing by the river. They ran along beside the warriors, asking questions that Caroline couldn’t understand and staring at her.

By the time they reached the larger building, other Indians had joined the procession. The women she saw reminded her of Sadayi and Walini. Though no one did anything to her, Caroline felt their curiosity, their animosity. She lifted her chin and forced her knees to hold firm.

She was left outside, under guard, as her Indian and several others entered the large cabin. It didn’t take long for them to come out again. They were accompanied by an older man. His skin was leathery and wrinkled, but his dark eyes remained clear. He looked her up and down then said something in the low guttural language. Her captor answered, and the older man nodded, seemingly in agreement. Then another Indian stepped forward and held something out for the older man’s inspection.

Caroline didn’t recognize it at first. But when she did, her stomach recoiled and she thought she’d be sick. She looked away quickly from Robert MacQuaid’s scalp. But the proof of his death seemed to spark excitement in the village. Everyone from the youngest child to an old woman with hair the color of steel, gathered closer.

“
Inadu! Inadu!
” Again and again Caroline heard the word the Indians had shouted during the attack. Snake. The name Sadayi said the Cherokee called her husband.

After a short conversation with her captor, one of the women grabbed Caroline’s arm and shoved her toward a cabin. The woman was obviously not pleased to be given this task. But after pushing her inside she did return in a few minutes with a bowl of something hot that made Caroline salivate. She set the food on the floor then pulled a small knife from her pocket.

Caroline cried out and backed toward the wall, but the woman ignored her obvious fear. With a flick of her wrist she severed the leather strap that bound Caroline’s wrists. Her tone was agitated as she spoke. She turned abruptly and left the cabin.

This encounter set the tone for the following days. Caroline was confined to the cabin, but she was given food and water. The woman built a fire for warmth and provided enough sticks and twigs for Caroline to keep it going.

Several times others would walk into the cabin unannounced. Once it was the old man. He simply stared at her, then nodded and left. Her captor also came. He spoke some English and asked her several questions concerning her comfort. He seemed anxious that she should be warm and well fed and was almost congenial.