Red Bird's Song (33 page)

"
Nimesoomtha
says we must stay for this day."

"Why?"

"I think he waits for someone."

"The mystery man. Did he speak his name?"

"No. I fear to know it."

"So do I. What does Waupee say?"

"The same as I do, we must flee, yet he will not defy
Nimesoomtha
."

"Surely, Eyes of the Wolf would not place us all at risk?” Still, anxiety heaved in her like a stream overflowing its banks. “Tomorrow—do we leave tomorrow?"

"I cannot say."

Another thought occurred to her, one that had eluded her in the mad urge for flight. “Where will we go?"

"Back to the mountains."

She shrank at these tidings and the grim lines at his mouth. “Is there nowhere else?"

"I do not know how far the English will search, but they will not go there. It is a good place to hide."

"And die. To be forced on a long journey to such a bitter place with winter soon upon us. I'll never survive."

He gripped her tightly. “You will.
Nimesoomtha
taught me to build shelter, to hunt with my bow when powder and shot are gone. I know how to live in these mountains in winter."

Mountains in winter. The very words kindled dread. “How many hungry panthers and wolves await us, I wonder?"

"I have powder and shot from the supplies taken for any that threaten. Waupee has skill to help me hunt."

"He is coming with us?"

"Yes. He cannot return to the English and his wife will not leave him."

"What of the children?"

"We will take the baby. The others must return to their people. We cannot care for so many."

Charity took a shuddering breath. “It's so unfair."

"The English do not concern themselves with what is fair."

"No. But to leave
Nimesoomtha
and venture on this harsh journey seems unbearable."

"How else may we remain together? For me, will you bear this?"

Despite her mounting hopelessness, she nodded. “I prefer to die with you, than live without your love."

"Do not speak of death. You will live, Red Bird,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. He clutched her to him and closed urgent lips over hers.

Sensing the desperation behind his passion, she returned his near-fierce kiss. His hands slipped through her hair, under her blanket, and up her sides. He covered her breasts and released her mouth, pressing his lips over her neck. “I know a place I hid as a child,” he whispered, pointing to a hemlock with low sweeping branches. “We will go there, where none can see us."

Maybe they could hide there forever.

He leaped down from the stone. “Come."

A month ago she would have jumped as he'd done, even raced him to the tree. Not now. She hadn't the strength.

Sad knowing touched his eyes. “I will help you."

She reached for him and closed her arms around his neck. Sunlight streamed over them as he lifted her and stood with her in his embrace. His hungry lips returned to hers. If only she could melt into him and truly be one.

"Put the girl down and back away!” a man barked.

Charity's heart nearly stopped before a wild hammering set in.

Soldiers wearing the scarlet uniforms of British regulars and others dressed in the hunting shirts of frontiersmen burst through the trees. A clean-shaven young man with gold braid trimming his red coat led some two dozen men. “I am Captain Dawson acting on Colonel Bouquet's orders. Unhand the girl!"

Every muscle in Wicomechee was coiled, but his face revealed only cold rage. “
Memequiluh
,” he said, and stood her on her feet.
"Te qui."

She understood his directive to run to the tree, but numb with dread she hesitated.

He gave her a shove.

Panic lent her the speed that weakness had taken and she flew toward the hemlock. She could soon lose herself beyond its branches.

"After her!” the officer ordered.

"Any man who gives chase, dies!” Wicomechee called in turn. “Will you fall first, captain?"

She knew what her husband threatened them with and what he sheltered behind. The large stone lay between her and the pursuing soldiers. But there were too many. An image flashed in her mind of him hurtling to the ground shot through the chest. Dear God—her dream.

"Don't fire, Mechee!” Spinning around, she raced back toward him.

"No, Red Bird."

"They'll kill you!” She ran to him in a burst of speed borne of sheer adrenalin.

Anguish filled his eyes. He lowered his musket and caught her to him. She held to him in horror as the men stalked nearer, their faces angry, barrels pointed at them.

"Step away, Miss,” the captain ordered.

"No. I want to stay with him."

"We have orders to return all captives."

"Your orders be damned and you with them!” Wicomechee shouted.

The musket barrels were only ten yards away. “Seize her! If this bastard resists, shoot him."

"Shoot us both and have done with your torment!” Charity flung back.

With the guttural groan of an injured wolf, Wicomechee pried her from him. “You will not die. Nor the child."

Tears blurred his precious face. “Don't fight them,” she pleaded. “Find some way to get me back."

He nodded.

Though she couldn't imagine how he'd recover her, she had no choice but to walk away, each hated step taking her toward the waiting captain. She stopped before the young officer and glared at him with streaming eyes. “Call my husband a bastard again, Captain, and by heaven you'll answer to me."

Astonishment displaced the annoyance in his arched gaze, and something else—admiration. “No, Ma'am. I won't."

"I'll say you won't, Captain Dawson! And any man who fires on that warrior will die by my hand,” a man warned.

Charity was too stunned to move. Beyond the captain, she saw a tall gentleman emerge through the trees.

He rounded on the officer. “You've made a mess of this."

"My apologies, Mister Ramsey."

The newcomer strode into full view and bore down on them. He wielded authority, yet he wasn't a soldier. His clothes befit a wealthy gentleman, from the brown tricorn hat trimmed in gold braid, to the brown wool coat with double capes extending over his broad shoulders. Fine breeches of the same hue hugged his long legs above black riding boots.

"I told you not to get ahead of me, Dawson. Look what you've done,” he scolded.

"This woman is a captive, sir."

"Have you forgotten the whole point of my coming?"

"No, sir. You seek to recover your son."

"Whom we have just learned has a fair wife with hair like fire. Her, perhaps?"

"That warrior—” Captain Dawson faltered. “Is your son?"

"What did you expect, a young man in evening dress? His mother was Shawnee, for God's sake."

This sudden turn of events nearly sent Charity toppling to the ground. As it was, she felt her knees giving way.

"Look to the lady, Captain!"

He sprang to her side, closing his arm around her middle. The gentleman swept through the parting soldiers. “You've frightened her nearly to death. Give her into my care."

Charity was promptly transferred to her new protector, who lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She stared up into a strong face that bore an undeniable resemblance to Wicomechee's. The red hair her husband had remembered so well was beginning to gray and worn tied back with a black ribbon.

"Don't let them take me away, sir,” she pleaded weakly.

His blue-gray eyes softened at her appeal. “Calm yourself, my dear. Everything will be all right.” Vexation charged his expression again as he returned his attention to the officer. “Go on, Dawson. See if you can keep out of trouble while I speak with this lady and my son."

"I dare not leave you alone, Mister Ramsey."

"I don't require your blasted protection!"

"The savage is armed, sir."

Mister Ramsey fixed the captain with a look reminiscent of Wicomechee's at his most provoked. “If anyone uses that unfortunate term in my presence again I will call that man out. Do I make myself clear?"

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Chapter Twenty-Two

Somewhere deep inside him, Wicomechee had known his father would come, though not when. Perhaps he'd inherited a bit of the sight. Whatever it was, this sixth sense hadn't prepared him for the churning emotion tearing through him. This was no time to lose his wits. He struggled to think as he stood staring at the man who now held Charity. Gone were the warrior clothes he remembered. Mister Ramsey, as Wicomechee had heard the newcomer called, was pure English.

"Leave us, Captain. I don't want to see your face again until I seek you out!” the forceful man ordered.

"Yes, sir. Just going.” Without any further protest, the detachment of soldiers rapidly retraced their steps.

Their deference was impressive and might prove useful, but it wasn't lost on Wicomechee that it was his father who'd brought them. If he had that power, he would shoot each one.

"Bloody nuisance, the lot of them,” Mister Ramsey muttered, but did not seem inclined to fire on them. He paused and spoke more gently to Charity. “Forgive me, dear lady. I forget myself. I'm Hugh Ramsey, and you are clearly overwrought. We best get some brandy into you. Steady your nerves.” Still holding her, he walked toward Wicomechee.

He sensed his father's hesitancy as he paused before him, likely an altogether unusual state for this commanding man.

"Hello, Kitate. Do you remember me?"

Wicomechee studied him narrowly. “I remember you,
Notha
. Not as you are now. Will you give me my wife?"

"Certainly, if you sit and speak with me,” the shrewd man bargained.

"Sit,” Wicomechee said tersely, and scaled the stone.

The man once known as Scootekitehi surrendered Charity and climbed beside him.

Wicomechee wrapped her in his arms. “Calm, sweet one. You shake so."

Hugh Ramsey reached into his coat and took out a silver flask. “I deeply regret her alarm. If that captain had done as I said, he wouldn't have arrived before me. I was delayed in the village greeting old friends."

"
Shawnee
friends?” Wicomechee emphasized.

"I still have them.” Mister Ramsey unscrewed the cap and extended the flask. “Give your wife a little brandy."

Wicomechee accepted his offering and held the flask to her lips. “Drink,
Niwah
."

She sipped while holding to him as though she feared being wrenched from his grasp. “I have you now and will not let you go,” he assured her, desperately glad she was restored to his arms. His tender demeanor altered abruptly as he eyed his father. “Why did you bring soldiers to us,
Notha
?"

"Colonel Bouquet insisted I have an escort. I much preferred to come alone."

"You know this colonel?"

"He's a friend."

"With such a
friend
you have no need of enemies."

"Do not scorn the attachment. Without Colonel Bouquet's written permission, I could not enter Shawnee land to seek for you. He has vowed to keep all settlers, and anyone else lacking official approval, east of the Alleghenies."

"If the Colonel is successful in this, we will thank him,” Wicomechee conceded grudgingly. “Yet only for this. He would cut our hearts from us."

"I know. Still, Colonel Bouquet isn't a monster. He's an honorable man who simply cannot believe any captives would prefer to remain with their adopted families."

"Does he think if he allows them to choose they will stay with us only from fear?"

"I see her love for you."

Wicomechee gave Charity a final swallow and returned the flask. He scrutinized his father, a scrutiny Mister Ramsey fully returned. “So,
Notha
, you have come. Why now?"

"Years of war prevented me from returning sooner."

"Before that?"

"My father counseled me to leave you to Eyes of the Wolf and not to confuse you with a father who could not stay.” A sigh escaped him and yearning welled in his blue-gray eyes. “When I saw you last you were a small boy. Now you're a man, fine in every way. You're so like your mother, Kitate."

"I am called Wicomechee,” he reminded him coldly.

"I refuse to call you that. I had no wish to leave you."

"Yet you did."

"And lived to regret it, beyond all description. Only I haven't had the opportunity to tell you until now."

Wicomechee weighed his explanation.

"Will you hear me?” Mister Ramsey pressed, as if detecting a chink in his anger.

The force of his father's personality mingled with his own longing gave Wicomechee pause. “I will hear you."

"Thank you,” he said with an expression Wicomechee never expected, humble gratitude. “Those first months after leaving the village, I barely knew where I was, hardly ate or slept. In time my grief for Netathwe lessened and I grew stronger. Yet always I longed for the company of my small son."

Wicomechee voiced the question that had eaten at him. “Why could you not stay with us?"

"A visit I could bear, but to remain...memories of your mother would have been too painful. And I don't belong here. Though for her sake I tried to bridge the two worlds."

"You were often gone."

"Yes, and I missed you both terribly when I was."

"What were you doing?"

"Learning to run my father's estate. As his only son, I owed him that. There was much to learn and seemingly endless matters to see to. It's a large holding."

"I have no knowledge of what you speak,” he said shortly, not inclined to hear about the white world that had stolen his father from him.

"No. Though I did once try to explain."

"I remember."

"I think you remember quite a lot."

Wicomechee gave him a look. “Yes. Much."

"Hear me out. I decided long ago that your grandfather was wrong, that we should know each other. Please, Kitate, forgive me for not coming sooner. I beg you."

Plainly, this proud man wasn't above humbling himself, but Wicomechee wasn't easily dissuaded from his anger. Not after all these years. Saying nothing, he set his jaw.