Red Bird's Song (2 page)

In a rush of memories, she recalled the stories of her father's death under the scalping knife and neighbors who'd suffered the same violent fate. No Indians had been spotted in their settlement since the Shawnee grew hostile and war had erupted nine years ago, but the warfare had ended. Hadn't it?

Clenching ice-cold fingers, she dug her nails into her palms. “What in God's name are you doing here?” she forced past the dry lump in her throat.

"Watching you."

He stepped closer to her in deerskin moccasins that fitted well up his sinewy legs. Feet adept at stealing through the woods made no sound on the layer of fallen leaves.

Paralyzed, she gaped at him. His English was fluent, as smooth as his approaching steps, uttered with a voice as warm as his eyes...him...like the man in her dream...the one who'd kissed her. But that was insane.

He slid the musket over his shoulder by a woven strap. A faint smile curved his lips. “You wish to go live among the trees? Come with me."

Instinctively, she shied back.

He closed the distance between them and extended a corded arm circled with twin bands of silver. His voice went from butter to grit. “Now."

Musket shots cracked above the rapid water. War whoops rang through the trees. Charity scrambled back with a shriek.

He lunged at her. Jerked fully to life, she flung the basket at his chest and spun around. Catching up her skirts, she raced over the uneven ground along the river.

She had only the hair of a head start, but by heaven she could run. Hadn't her brother, Craig, said as much?

Clinging to his praise, she tore through grass heavy with seed heads. The slap of her shoes and swish of her petticoats sounded alongside the rapid water. She sensed but didn't hear the warrior's stealthy pursuit. Dodging rocks masked by the haze, she hurtled across downed branches, risking a nasty fall. But what did that matter with the hound of hell snapping at her heels?

Faster! Heart pounding in her ears, she leapt over a moss-encrusted log and stumbled. Grabbing a bent sapling for support, she righted herself and sprang away through a blur of color. Her chest thudded. She could scarcely get her breath and shot a glance over her shoulder.

Lord, no! Her pursuer's glove-like moccasins had the advantage over her square-toed shoes, as did his ground-covering strides. He rapidly narrowed the gap between them. God save her or she'd be killed and scalped like her father.

Summoning every ounce of speed, she spurted ahead, sides heaving, pain stabbing her chest. She flew around a bend in the river and stopped short. A prickly tangle of burdock and brambles blocked the path. She looked wildly around. No way through. Shooting to the side, she clamored up the bank.

Down she went, sliding over loose stones, lurching forward with outstretched hands and scraping her palms. She ignored the sting and scrambled up to pelt through tall grass and spikes of mullein. If she hid among the stand of cedars just ahead, he might not find—too late. He'd come.

A scream ripped from her throat. She grabbed up a stout stick and spun around. Shaking the loose mane from her eyes, she brandished her makeshift weapon. “Stay back!"

He arched one black brow. “You think to strike me with that?"

Before she heaved another ragged breath, he snatched it away. “What now?” he challenged.

She lunged, pushing against his rock-hard chest—like trying to dislodge an anvil. She dug in her heels and struggled to knock him off balance and down the slope. Not a prudent move. She'd unwittingly placed herself in his hands.

He snapped unyielding arms around her. “I have you."

She twisted, shrieking, in his steely grasp, kicking at his rooted legs and grinding her feet into the earth. The fragrance of spearmint charged the air. How ironic to die surrounded by such sweet scent.

Gripping her tightly, he forced her down to the leafy ground in a press of hard muscle and heated skin. His gleaming black hair spilled over her face as he pinned her thrashing arms. “Stop fighting me."

"I'll fight to the end!"

He straddled her and stilled her pummeling legs. “For your life? Have I tomahawk or knife in my hand?"

She gaped up at him, her breath rasping in her throat. Whether he spoke in bemusement or annoyance, she couldn't tell from his controlled expression, but the weapons remained at his side. And he wouldn't waste gunpowder and a lead ball on her when he could so easily kill her with a single blow.

"You'll let me live?” she gulped in short bursts.

"Did I not say you will come with me?"

She searched his eyes for signs of malice and saw none, only a keen watchfulness. Her stomach churned as he clasped her wrists with one hand and reached toward his waist.

A spasm shuddered through her. Had he only been tormenting her? Was he—even now—drawing his knife?

She squeezed her eyes shut, moaning, against the cruel blade. But no fatal kiss of steel met her throat. Instead, firm, warm fingers lightly stroked her cheek.

"I have no wish to do you harm. You are my captive."

She opened her eyes in breathless tension. There it was again, that piercing gaze. If she hadn't already been winded, one glance from him would have robbed her of air. She inhaled his scent, both intimidating and strangely compelling. Her panting eased. “What will you do?” she asked hoarsely.

"Slow you. You run like
peshikthe
, the deer."

He drew buckskin cord from the fringed, beaded pouch at his waist and bound her wrists. “Tell me your name."

"Charity Edmondson."

"Charity,” he said with a pensive edge to his strangely accented baritone. “I do not know this English name."

"You know others?"

"Many.” He shifted to her side and stood, pulling her up with him. “I am called Wicomechee."

In her distress, she echoed only the last two syllables. “Mechee?"

He took her arm. “This will serve. Come."

"Where?"

"Where you wish. The woods,” he said with a hint of amusement.

"I never really meant to go,” she stammered.

"Have care what you wish for."

She had prayed too and it certainly wasn't for this.

He forced her back past the trees along the river. In dread of what she'd find, Charity looked ahead to their log home on the hill. The clearing mist revealed several dozen warriors carrying away Aunt Mary's prized woven blankets, cherished cooking pots, and sacks of cornmeal. Others bore cured hams, kegs of apple brandy and whiskey, to load the plunder on Uncle John's sturdy horses.

The gray mare, chestnut gelding, and black and white piebald tossed their heads and whinnied. Warriors grabbed at their reins while the speckled red-combed chickens cackled, flapping, in the yard. Squealing pigs loosed from their pen bolted through the garden, trampling orange pumpkins. The placid cow galloped into the woods behind the log barn.

Charity's burning thought was the fate of the others. “Aunt Mary! Uncle John! Emma! James—” she choked on her young cousin's name.

No one replied. She sought their familiar figures in mounting desperation. “What's become of them?"

"I cannot say,” Wicomechee replied.

One answer came in the form of a woman's screams. Across the meadow, Emma struggled in the grasp of a fearsome warrior. The hair from the back and sides of his head had been plucked, leaving a glistening scalp lock on top. His powerful painted form eclipsed the petite young woman.

"No! Let her go!” Charity wrenched away from Wicomechee and bounded toward her cousin.

He sprang after her. Seizing her shoulders, he jerked her to a halt. “You wish to fight Chaka?"

"Help Emma, Mechee. Please."

Chaka snatched off Emma's cap to tug at the knot of hair on her fair head. Sunlit lengths cascaded to her waist. “That woman is the golden-haired one,” Wicomechee said, as though this were of great significance. “Come."

Charity hastened with him. How did he know about Emma?

"Chaka!” Wicomechee shouted.

Chaka turned toward them with a menacing grin and combed his fingers suggestively through Emma's blond curls.

Wicomechee spoke in his native tongue, but his anger needed no translation.

Chaka's taunting smile faded. Defiance glinting in his eyes, he grunted out a reply.

Wicomechee stopped a few yards away from them and hissed a command.

Chaka jerked the weeping woman around. “Waupee's?” he sneered, sweeping one hand at her swollen abdomen.

Charity stared in confusion. “What's happening?"

Wicomechee answered gruffly. “Chaka says this woman is not my brother's wife. She carries the child of another."

"Of course she's not. Emma is wed to Edward Estell."

"No longer. Waupee will want her back."

Charity couldn't fathom what claim this Waupee had to Emma. Only one matter was vital now and she shouted at the menacing brave who grasped her cousin. “Let Emma go!"

Chaka fastened black eyes on Charity. “
Metchi scoote.
You have much fire.” He restrained the sobbing woman with one hand and gestured at Charity with his other. “Trade me for your red-haired woman, Wicomechee."

Charity shrank from Chaka's probing stare to press against Wicomechee who'd terrified her only minutes ago. Ironic, but he was her and Emma's best chance of survival.

He shook his head. “No trade."

Chaka returned his chilling grin to Charity. “I like your captive."

"Do not touch her."

"She is the daughter of an English dog.” Chaka raked Emma with his contemptuous stare. “This one also."

"Release the wife of Waupee,” Wicomechee demanded.

Chaka drew a wicked knife. “I'll have her scalp first."

Wicomechee sprang with the speed of a striking snake and clamped his fingers around Chaka's muscular arm. Chaka flung Emma to the grass and grappled with Wicomechee. Emma crawled out of their way and collapsed, shaking violently.

Charity ran to her cousin. Dropping to her knees, she bent over her protectively, unable to do more with bound wrists. “I pray the ruthless warrior doesn't win this, Emma."

The knife loosed from Chaka's grip, Wicomechee heaved his adversary onto his side. Wicomechee's chest rose and fell as he threaded Chaka's arm through his own legs, seizing it from behind and grasping his other. Charity was so engrossed in their combat she scarcely noticed the approaching rider until he was almost upon them.

She lurched from the battling warriors at the drum of hooves. “Who—"

Chest heaving from his all out struggle with Chaka, Wicomechee glanced around to see his English brother rein in his horse. The wind whipped the loose chestnut hair hanging around his shoulders and over his blue hunting shirt.

Charity sucked in her breath. “Good heavens. Colin Dickson?"

Wicomechee knew that English name, though he called the adopted warrior Waupee. Glancing to the side, he observed the golden haired woman huddled on the grass beside Charity. Tearful eyes the color of a brooding sky were fixed on the former Englishman as if he'd returned from the grave; so he might as well have done. He was dead to the white world.

Waupee rushed past the women to where Wicomechee and Chaka clashed like two great elk. “Do we lack sufficient enemies that you two must battle—again?"

Wicomechee fought to keep the upper hand over the brave bucking in his hold. “Chaka would take your woman's scalp."

"By heaven, I'll have yours, Chaka!” Waupee hurled back, and drew the silver-mounted dagger from the sash at his waist.

"No,” Wicomechee grunted, “I'll finish this.” In a surge of power, like a mighty wind, he flung Chaka onto his back. Breathing hard, he bent over him, “Surrender the woman now."

"Take her,” Chaka bit out. “I go."

Wicomechee rolled aside. The sullen brave stood, blood trickling from his mouth, and picked up his knife.

Waupee turned toward the golden haired one. “Are you all right, Emma?"

"Colin—” she sobbed.

"My poor darling.” Fury replaced the fleeting tenderness in Waupee's blue eyes and he rounded on Chaka. “Bastard! If you ever come near her again I'll—” he caught himself, hissing the rest of his threat, one Wicomechee didn't doubt his ability to carry out. He had taught his brother well.

Chaka gave a grudging nod and turned away. Wicomechee might have forced him to relinquish Waupee's woman, but the look he shot at Charity in passing held vindictive promise. Her face whitened as he strode off across the meadow. Anger hazed Wicomechee's mind. Always, Chaka wanted what was his.

"I owe you, Wicomechee, for coming to Emma's aid."

Waupee's gratitude returned his focus to his white brother. “You owe me nothing. Now you have what you want?"

"Oh, yes.” Waupee reached Emma in three strides and knelt beside her. He gathered her against him and she clung to him, weeping as though she'd never stop. He pressed his lips to her head. “Hush...no one will harm you now."

Charity seemed astonished at the attachment between the distraught woman and this former gentleman. Did none know?

With visions of furious Scotsmen on their heels, Wicomechee grasped her arm and pulled her up. “Come with me."

"Wait—please.” Eyes searching, Charity swiveled her head at the smoky homestead. “What of the others?"

Wicomechee paused. “What of the family,
NiSawsawh
?"

Waupee looked up, remorse in his face. “I'm terribly sorry I didn't reach you sooner, Emma. I was securing the life of your little brother."

"James is safe? Thank God,” she choked out against him.

Charity heaved an enormous sigh. “And Aunt Mary?"

"I expect she escaped."

Her lips trembled. “Uncle John?"

Waupee's jaw tightened; plainly, he'd rather not answer. “I tried to persuade John McLeod to surrender. He refused."

The woman called Emma cried, “What are you saying?"

"One brave grew impatient and fired. I deeply regret I was unable to prevent your father's death."

Charity crumpled like an injured bird tumbling to the ground. She staggered in Wicomechee's grasp and he steadied her with his hand on her shoulder. Her eyes flashed to his in surprise, as though she expected no kindness from a warrior. Then tears welled in her green gaze.