Red Bird's Song (3 page)

Emma seized Waupee's upper arms and shook him; his solid form yielded little under her frenzied assault. “I don't understand! You make it sound as if you're in charge!"

He grasped her wrists. “In a way, I am."

"How? Why? Your being here makes no sense—"

"Wicomechee and his grandfather found me in the frontier two years ago. I've lived with the Shawnee ever since."

"Couldn't you escape, Mister Dickson?” Charity asked.

Wicomechee cast her a disdainful look. “Where would Waupee go? The English seek his life."

Charity gulped. “
This
is Waupee? What kind of trouble drove you to the Indians, Mister Dickson?"

"A duel—"

Emma's strangled cry drowned him out. “I thought you were never coming back. Why have you returned now?"

"For your sake. When I learned war parties were headed to the valley, I agreed to lead one of the groups."

Emma's liquid gaze grew molten. “Colin—how could you?"

"To assure I was with the men coming here. Warriors are raiding settlements along this stretch of river. Was I simply to hope yours was overlooked? It's a prominent homestead."

Emma writhed to escape him and her blond hair flew about them both. “Traitor—"

"Stop this at once, Emma,” Waupee said sternly, but failed to stem her mounting hysteria.

"Think of the baby,” Charity pleaded, to no avail.

They could delay no longer. “Enough,” Wicomechee said, and knelt beside the struggling woman. Clasping her face between his palms, he forced her to meet his flinty stare. “My brother is no traitor. We would find you. Shawnee take captives or leave bodies. Which do you prefer?"

Emma swallowed and grew still. Wicomechee dropped his hands and stood while she slumped, weeping, against Waupee.

Wicomechee waved at the trees. “We must go,
NiSawsawh
. The militia will chase us like a she-bear after her cubs."

Waupee stood, drawing the shaken women up with him. He glanced at Charity. “Is it necessary to bind that poor girl?"

"She runs like the deer. Perhaps I will bind her legs."

Charity reeled, stopped short by the tightening of Wicomechee's fingers on her arm. She eyed him uncertainly.

He returned her study with the inscrutability of a wolf. Better she not know his full intent.

Waupee shook his head at him. “You're frightening her."

"Good. She must not escape me."

"Give my brother no trouble, Miss Edmondson, and you will be well,” Waupee said, and whistled for his horse.

"Don't leave me, Mister Dickson,” she pleaded.

"We will meet often, Miss Edmondson. It's a long journey to the Ohio Country."

Not one Charity seemed persuaded she would survive. She stared after the retreating rider, auburn brows drawn beneath a smooth forehead. Her finely arched nose sniffed and lips the hue of the rosy dawn quivered.

A twinge of jealousy shot through Wicomechee. Shrugging off the volatile stab, he pulled his knife from the beaded skin sheath at his side. “Stay still,” he said tersely, put out with himself.

Charity's shaky trust evaporated at the sight of the blade and she bolted. He sprang after her. Circling his arm around her waist, he jerked her to a halt. “Do you not know the meaning of still?"

"And wait while you do what—slit my throat?"

"Your skirts, to pass more easily through the trees."

She stood as if poised for flight while he knelt and slashed through her petticoats. Wielding the knife like an old friend, he shortened the layers to just below her knees. Her cream-colored stockings and shapely legs were visible now. He must find some leggings to shield her skin from briars. Meanwhile, he savored the appealing sight.

Forcing his attention back to the task at hand, he stuffed some of the linen into his pouch. He retook her arm. “We are behind,” he said, and sped her through the meadow so quickly she had to run to keep up with his strides.

Acrid smoke stained the blue sky. She slanted tearful eyes at the flames consuming the log house and outbuildings. Pity touched him at the pain in her face, but he would have another bout of hysteria on his hands if he didn't keep moving. He hurried her past the flaming homestead and field where her guardian lay beside the plow he'd never use again.

Charity jerked against him as if to run to her kinsman. “Uncle John was a good man! He wasn't even armed!"

Wicomechee pulled her up. “Hush."

She only reached midway up his chest and tilted her head to shout at him. “You are cowards to strike him down!"

He clapped his hand over her lips, imprisoning her in his arms. Enticing curves tempted him from beneath her cloak. She smelled of hickory smoke and the scent of soap clung to her hair. As his grandfather predicted, this enraged woman was the find of a lifetime and he must work fast to keep her.

Hot tears spilled over his hand. “I did not kill your uncle,” he said, easing his grip on her supple lips.

"Only because another killed him first."

"No.
NiSawsawh
, my brother, did not wish his death."

"You may be his friend, but you're my enemy and always—"

"Be still.” He clamped his palm back down and sensed her defiance, as if she wanted to wrestle him to the ground as he had Chaka. “Or I will bind your mouth."

Charity gave a short nod and he slid his hand from her lips. She wiped her damp face on her cloak, smoldering rebellion in her eyes. Most women were easily suppressed. This one would bear close watching.

He steered her forward and they overtook the war party. The men's stony faces were set on swift retreat. He joined the single-file formation and positioned her in front of him. She hiked the trail in tearful silence, each step taking them farther away from the fenced-in meadows and plowed fields so beloved by settlers. As they ventured into the woods, the earthy musk of plants and crumbling leaves enveloped them. Here lay the realm of warriors and frontiersmen—his realm.

Shafts of light poured through the dark forest where the boughs had been torn away and storm-felled trees lay toppled like slain giants. The burnished leaves shone. Birdcalls echoed from high branches. A doe flashed her white tail, an elk bugled, sights and sounds that stirred Wicomechee's blood.

On they journeyed, and the sun heated the air even under the leafy cover. Charity's feet dragged. Wicomechee took her cloak. She wore no jacket, only a skirted-bodice laced up over her shift. The nut-brown top molded her rounded breasts, triggering a more rapid heartbeat in him than the march alone. As for her hair, he both admired and resented the coppery-red mantle. Like a scent long ago remembered, her hair lured him back into a past he'd shoved deep inside him, and yet, he yearned to run his fingers through the glowing spill.

Sweat trickled down over Charity's face, her chest heaved, and her shoulders sagged. She gazed longingly through the leaves at the stream. He would willingly let her stop to drink, but if he did they would fall far behind his party.

A root snagged her unsteady foot and she lurched onto the trail, striking her knee on a stone. She lay clutching her leg, shaking with sobs. If he didn't tend to her, some impatient brave might put a permanent end to her suffering.

Motioning the others past, he knelt beside her. “Charity, let me see.” She made no objection as he turned her over and lightly pressed his fingers around her gashed knee.

She peered through pain-glazed eyes at the blood running down her torn stocking and gasped, “I've lamed myself."

"No.” He slid his arms beneath her and lifted her.

She slumped in his hold.

Relishing the feel of his burden, he carried her past yellow chestnuts covered with scarlet vines, through drifts of tawny fern, to the stream. He laid her on a bed of moss beside the water. She sank down and was still as he cupped the cold water in his hands and poured it over her knee again and again to numb her injury.

"The cut is not deep. Very bruised."

She watched him take fluff from his pouch and pack the wound. “Buzzard down,” he said. Retrieving a strip of linen, he bound the dressing in place. “Is the pain less?"

She gazed at him with wide eyes, her dark fringe of lashes beaded with tears, and nodded. “Thank you."

"You will not run from me now, I think.” The late day sun touched his blade as he drew his knife and cut her cords.

She rubbed her wrists and bent near the stream to cup long mouthfuls of water. Lengths of her hair trailed in the clear ripples, mirroring the russet leaves swirling by. She was like a fair spirit of the woods. Her coloring blended with the autumn hues perfectly.

"I could drink forever,” she said between gulps.

He knelt beside her to drink. “You would burst."

She splashed her face then flopped down onto her side at the stream's edge. “I should like to climb in there."

He tore his gaze from her bodice that had slipped down to reveal the tops of mounded breasts. Leaves colored like glass beads rustled overhead, but the shadows lengthened among the trees. “You would shake with cold. The day is far gone."

She closed her eyes. “If I had something to eat I would ask nothing more than to sleep for a while."

"What of the nuts and berries you will eat?"

She looked up at him in drowsy bewilderment.

"You spoke of this,” he reminded her.

"Oh. I'm not able to seek anything now."

As he thought, she was ignorant of survival out here. Taking strips of dried venison from the pouch at his waist, he gave them to her. She devoured each scrap and ran the tip of her pink tongue over her lips.

"You eat like the wolf,” he said, determined not to let her inviting mouth distract him from their urgent journey.

"Often I'm scolded for eating too little. Aunt Mary says I'm skinny, like a boy."

"You are nothing like a boy.” He couldn't resist smoothing a tendril at her forehead. A responsive shiver ran through her. Fear alone, or something more? He looked at her for a moment then lowered his hand and stood. “We must go."

She remained as she was. “Let me rest a bit longer."

A doe couldn't have blended with the woodland any better. But they would not long have it to themselves. “I have no wish to face the Long Knives alone."

"Who?” she asked, pushing up on her elbows.

"The men you call militia. Come."

She sank back down onto the green moss. “Not yet."

Wicomechee narrowed his eyes at her. “Do not refuse me."

"But I'm too weary to move,” she groaned.

"You will move, if you fear I will beat you."

Her mouth flew open. “You said you wouldn't harm me!"

"Nor do I wish to. If I am kind, you will not obey me."

"If you are cruel, I will hate you."

He set his jaw. She would not intimidate him.

She blinked and loosed one last arrow. “I'll tell Mister Dickson. He will punish you."

That shaft struck home. Wicomechee had never resented his adopted brother, and it especially annoyed him that she threatened to come between them like a blade wedged between two stones. “Get up, Charity,” he growled.

She dragged herself to her feet, staggering with a cry. “I can't bear weight on it."

He reached into the brush and pulled out a stout stick. “Use this to walk with, not to strike me."

Her expressive face told him she'd rather the latter use. “How far have I to go?” she asked.

"We will journey until the stars are bright."

"I'll never make it, Mechee."

"You will. The deer is not only fast, she is strong."

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Chapter Two

Like a deep well, the sleep Charity had fallen into lay far beneath the realm of consciousness. Her exhausted mind and body wanted to remain in that distant place, but an insistent snuffling on her cheek nudged her back to wakefulness. She rolled onto her side, only to have the moist assault commence on her other cheek.

Brushing at the offender, she discovered a wet nose and tongue. Had some wild animal pushed open the door and entered their log home? If so, he was extremely friendly.

She opened her eyes to find a dog licking her face. The McLeod's didn't have a dog, although many of their neighbors did. “Where did you come from?” she asked drowsily.

Stroking his floppy ears, she explored the surrounding darkness—too much darkness. Not only that, but a damp cold permeated the room and she was chilled through. Orange coals should glow in the hearth. Aunt Mary would never allow the fire to die out.

"Sit,” she commanded the exuberant hound.

He settled obediently at Charity's feet allowing her a better look around. Faint gray light emanated from what appeared to be an opening, not a doorway, and she heard breathing. Far more breathing than she was used to. The sudden realization came to her that she wasn't in the McLeod's log house. Where in the world was she?

She sprang up, crying out as the pain in her knee jolted her to horrific awareness. Fiery images rushed back—the burning homestead, their animals gone mad, Uncle John lying dead. Wherever she was, unseen warriors surrounded her.

"Charity—"

"Mechee?” She stumbled over his rising figure.

He caught her as she fell. “What the—” he broke off, colliding with the scrambling animal. He pulled her down with him and landed on his back. Dry leaves crunched beneath them.

Her chest made sudden impact against his. Gasping, she sprawled atop him, closer than she'd ever been to any man—a startling sensation.

"The wee dog found me,” she said breathlessly. “Don't harm him."

"No.” Wicomechee held her a moment longer than necessary before shifting her to one side. The worried dog licked at her hand. “Stay,” he said in low tones, and relocated her newly found friend. “Come, Charity. Lie on the blanket."

She couldn't even see it in their tomb-like surroundings. “Where are we?"

"A cave in the mountains."

A smothering sensation enveloped her, emphasized ten-fold by the inky blackness. Bears and mounds of rattlesnakes were known to den up in caves. Worse, she shared this confined space with an unseen human enemy.