Red Bird's Song (17 page)

She darted where he'd gone, but found no trace of him among the brown stones. “Mechee?"

"You seek me?” he asked quietly from behind her.

She spun around. “You move like a ghost."

"Do I feel like a spirit?” he whispered, and pulled her down into a leaf-strewn crevice just wide enough for two.

She pressed against his bare chest in a heady rush and felt his hard thighs beneath the breechclout. “Not at all."

He pointed through a gap in the rocks down to the shadowed hollow veiled in light haze below their vantage. “
Peshikthe,
the deer
,
feed there.
Wabete,
the elk, also."

The narrow valley was empty now, but an elk bellowed off in the hazy distance. Wicomechee lifted the beaded flap of his hunting pouch and took out a wooden whistle. “This will bring Brother Elk.” Putting it to his lips, he blew in a skilled imitation of the elk's high-pitched bugle.

"You sound very like, but ‘tis quite a way to fire from here,” she whispered.

His musket lay on the leafy ground within arms-reach. “I do not miss."

"Truly you have amazing skill."

He slid the whistle back into his pouch and fixed his eyes on her. “Firing is not difficult. It is you who are difficult. I fear to let you from my sight."

She glimpsed the yearning in the depths of his dark gaze. “Do you truly care so very much for me?"

"What more must I do to prove my love? I cannot show you with words only."

"Words alone will not content me,” she admitted.

He pulled back to look fully into her eyes. “Do I dream?"

The silver light and solitude lent a sense of unreality to the moment. She slipped her fingers through the black hair falling across his shoulders. Wanting grew in her, though she couldn't have said for what, only more. “You are so handsome,
Wyshetche
, your face, your hair...all of you."

"Now I know I dream."

"Not unless we both do. Oh, I wish you were English,” she sighed.

"That is not my wish."

She nuzzled her cheek against the smooth skin in the hollow of his cheek. “Everything would be so much simpler."

"Charity, forget I am a warrior, think only that I am your husband, friend. Am I not also this?"

"You are, but—"

He touched his fingers to his lips. “Do not speak. Show me your love."

"Me? I haven't your skill."

"Try. You are doing very well."

Streaks of pale rose and gold tinged the eastern sky as she inched her face nearer to his, until her mouth was only a breath away from his lips. Like a hunter mindful of frightening a deer, he held himself still, waiting.

"Won't you help me, Mechee?"

"Come to me first."

Shutting her eyes, she closed the remaining distance and slowly pressed her uncertain lips to his welcoming mouth.

"You are all that is sweet,” he said huskily, deepening their kiss and enveloping her in his arms.

Desire flared up in her and she felt as if she were melting into him. “What about your elk?"

"What elk?” he asked, his breath warming her cheek.

"The one you would shoot."

"Later."

Reclaiming her lips, he drew her down with him onto the leaves. The stone walls of their hideaway left little room to move. He lay on his side and she on hers, pressed to his chest, her heartbeat drumming in her ears. A mockingbird let fly its first song of the morning and squirrels chattered. The forest was coming to life, and so was she.

"Let me make you my wife.” he invited. “Completely."

Every shivery part of her wanted him, but an inner voice urged caution. “Will it hurt?"

"Perhaps a little."

"How much is a little?"

"Charity, I heard you tell
NiSawsawh
you trust me."

"I do."

"Then let me love you."

She wanted to, oh how she did. She craved his devotion, affection, his all...even more than he'd felt for Mequana, his late wife.

A horse whinnied in the hollow below, shattering their dreamy idyll. Wicomechee clapped his hand over her mouth and sat upright to peer through the stones. His rigid back told her what she already knew—the militia had come.

Still covering her mouth, Wicomechee returned his scrutiny to Charity. In her widened eyes he saw fear, also devotion, but what was the depth of her loyalty? He couldn't make her slip away with him. If she resisted, any thrashing or muffled outcry might alert the horsemen to their presence.

"Come with me?” he mouthed.

She nodded without a waver.

Despite the imminent danger, he grinned as he grabbed up his musket. Keeping low, he stole from the stones and headed up the trail. A glance over his shoulder revealed her creeping close to the ground just behind him.

He straightened when they reached the laurel thicket. Musket in hand, he sped away, alert to her quiet presence. She ran with the speed he'd admired and kept pace with his long-legged strides. The laurel swished past in a green blur as they climbed higher up the ridge. The rutted ground they'd crossed before came into view. Here she might stumble. He grasped her arm with his free hand and they leapt over the washed out grooves together.

Again he took the lead and they raced through dew-beaded leaves sparkling where golden shafts streamed though the branches. They burst into the clearing without slowing.

"How many men?” she gasped out.

"More than twenty. Well-armed."

On they ran back across the meadow. She panted behind him, but pushed on through the trees toward camp. They rushed in among the men.

"Long Knives,” Wicomechee hissed.

Word of the militia's approach flashed through the band. Warriors prone in bedrolls were on their feet, snatching up weapons, blankets, pots, anything of value.

Wicomechee stopped and clasped Charity to him. Her chest heaved against the rise and fall of his. “You flew like a bird,” he praised her.

She looked up at him, pride warming her eyes, but only for an instant. “What will happen?"

"We pull back. And watch."

The hour Charity had feared was at hand. The militia would be ambushed. Still winded, she gulped out, “Mechee—please."

Sympathy touched his eyes like momentary sunshine, but steely resolve lay behind it. “Shhhh. I will do as I must. Wait here."

He let go of her and ran to Outhowwa. Their heads bent together in rapid conversation while the rest of the party disappeared into the cover of pines and hemlocks. Chaka dragged Rob Buchanan off. The cloth tied across Rob's mouth would prevent him from crying any warning to his father.

Muga whisked the sleeping children up into his arms, blankets and all, the dog at his heels. “Wicomechee."

Outhowwa and Wicomechee glanced around at his low summons. Muga nodded at Emma, wrapped in a blue blanket, writhing and moaning beside the dying embers of the campfire.

Charity rushed to her cousin. “Emma—the militia's come. We must away."

Emma lifted frightened gray eyes and clutched at her swollen abdomen. “I can't. The baby's coming."

Charity nearly staggered back. “Does Colin realize?"

"No. The pains were mild in the night, so I didn't wake him—” she caught her breath. “I was dozing when he left to tend the horses. My water broke. Pains are fast—hard now."

The news struck Charity like a blow to the head and she dropped onto her knees. “You'll be all right."

Emma closed icy fingers over her hand. “Stay with me."

Wicomechee ran to them. He took in the situation at a glance. “Her little one's coming."

Charity looked up at him in desperation. “Do you know what to do for her?"

He gave a nod and bent to slide his arms beneath Emma. She cried out as he lifted her, twisting with the onset of another contraction. He lowered her gently to the ground.

"I dare not take her. Her cries will draw the Long Knives."

The weight of realization came, and with it a lump in Charity's throat. “I can't leave her, Mechee. The men will force me from you."

He set his jaw. “Never."

As fraught with anxiety as she was, she hated to think of his deadly skill being directed at Captain Buchanan and the others. “Go, then. Before they arrive."

"Colin!” Emma's ragged shout tore across the empty camp.

"Do not fear. I will find my brother.” Wicomechee slipped his fingers across Charity's cheek in a parting caress. “Do not forget. You are mine now, Red Bird."

Tears blurred her sight of him vanishing into the trees. How could she bear it if their time together was at an end?

There was no opportunity to dwell on her troubles, though. Emma needed her. Charity had witnessed a birth once. The details were sketchy in her memory, but she hadn't forgotten the screams. What had Mrs. Buchanan done?

She had a vague recollection of a tea brewed from the roots of slippery elm given to the mother, and its sap used to ease the birth. There were no elm trees at hand, no pot, nor any fresh water or cloth to sponge Emma. The blanket beneath her was soiled with birth water, as were her skirts. How was Charity to find dry linens, fetch water and medicinal herbs, let alone tend to the birth, ignorant and unaided?

She winced as Emma's nails dug into her palm. Sharp cries punctuated her moans and she rolled from side to side.

"God help me. I didn't think it would be this bad."

"You'll be all right,” Charity repeated over and over without any real sense of assurance.

At last Emma relaxed her fierce hold. But she'd scarcely drawn breath before she tossed again in the grips of another spasm. “I'm gonna die!"

"No. You'll be fine.” Charity shakily smoothed the damp curls from Emma's forehead. “'Tis easing now. Try to rest between pains."

"I can't. There's so little time."

"Calm down, dearest. Please."

"I want Mama. I can't do this without Mama."

"You can.” Charity heaved a grateful sigh at the sight of Colin shooting out behind the nearest hemlock."

"Sorry I'm late. We were moving the horses.” He crouched over Emma and tenderly gathered her against him. “Poor darling. I thought you were with Muga."

"I was afraid you wouldn't come."

"Promised you I'd be here, didn't I?” He eased her back down to the blanket and gripped her fingers.

For a moment Emma was calmer. Then another onslaught seized her and she loosed a piercing cry. “Colin!"

"I'm here, Sweetheart. Hold on."

She thrashed like an animal trying to escape a trap. “Hurts—it hurts.” Tears spilled down her flushed cheeks, leaving shining trails. “How long until the baby's born?"

Colin glanced at Charity, and she could almost see him thinking this wasn't anything like delivering a foal. But he kept any doubts to himself. “Anytime now, I'm sure."

She thumped the back of her head on the ground as if trying to knock herself out. “Too hard. Can't wait."

Neither could Charity. “Shall I see if I can fetch any supplies for her? Maybe I can find Mechee. Ask him what—"

"No!” Emma wailed. “Don't go. It feels like a great serpent has me in its coils—crushing me."

Colin wiped her beaded brow with his sleeve. “He'll not crush the life from you. You'll get through this."

She clutched at his shirt. “If I don't, save the baby."

"Hush,” Charity pleaded. “Your mama lived. You'll live."

Her eyes were wild. “Colin—cut the child from me if you must.” She flailed her hand at Charity. “You take it."

Colin grasped Emma's chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Charity has no milk to give. This baby needs a mother. Fight, Emma. For the baby. For me."

Her vision cleared and she seemed more herself. “I'll try."

"Emma Estell!” a kindhearted voice called out. “Are you birthing the babe now? What a time for the wee one to come."

Captain Buchanan's brawn filled Charity's view, his broad felt hat perched atop graying, sandy-brown hair. A group of frontiersmen strode behind him. She spotted his oldest son, Jeb, with a short reddish beard and built like his father. The company Captain Buchanan headed was made up of settlers who farmed their holdings, except for two trappers, often away checking their lines. Bear skins wrapped the trapper's hats and they wore moccasins in place of shoes or boots.

Charity recognized all these men. She counted twelve. Where were the others? Wicomechee had reported more than twice that number.

"Captain! Help me!” Emma cried.

"Aye. In just a shake.” His keen eyes took in the three of them as he neared. “Colin Dickson? I never expected to find you out here. Glad to see Miss Edmondson's well."

Colin nodded a quick greeting. “The captives are safe, Captain. Even your son, Rob."

Captain Buchanan's weathered face creased in relief. “Thank God,” he said, making visible effort to stem his emotions. He looked warily at the trees, as did eleven other pairs of eyes. “Where have those savages gotten to?"

"Your questions will be answered as soon as I'm able, Captain,” Colin answered. “Meanwhile, I strongly advise all of you to remain near us. It's your best hope of survival."

Captain Buchanan ran callused fingers over his graying beard. “This makes no sense. You wouldn't sell us out to Indians, would you?"

"No. I count you as my friend."

"What say you to this, Miss Edmondson?"

"I trust Mister Dickson with my life, sir."

"Good enough. Do as he says, men."

Emma's cry rose above the captain's orders. Her flushed face scrunched together with the force of her convulsed body.

He laid his musket on the ground. “This birth is damn close. I've helped my wife with a few and I can tell you when a woman sounds like this, it's coming, or—” he broke off, his expression sober. “Have either of you checked her yet?"

It hadn't occurred to Charity to do this.

Colin shook his head. “Haven't had the chance yet."

Captain Buchanan knelt beside Emma. “Mind if I look?"

"Make the baby come out. Please!"

The rugged company turned their heads while their leader pushed up her skirts and spread her legs apart. “What do you know, I can see the head—a patch as wide as two shillings. Shouldn't be long now. Get behind her, Dickson, and support her back. It's best she not birth the babe lying flat."