The Captive Heart (15 page)

“Well, either I’ll have to trust Sutton to get me word, or I’ll have to make more frequent trips into town.” He jumped down from the rock, the jolt of hitting solid ground juddering up his legs. “Come home with me and meet Red Bird. I think she’s fair enough ready to meet you by now. More than enough. She’s got spunk, I’ll give her that.”

Inoli joined him on the ground, resting a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “No, my brother. Another time. I am off to Keowee.”

“Oh?” Samuel studied his friend’s eyes, but he might as well gaze at a blackened sky. Inoli allowed no hint of what hid behind his placid stare, but something was up.

“Would it not be prudent to see if Attakullakulla is there?”

“Aye. As always, you think one step ahead—which is why I no longer game with you.” He lifted a brow, humor lifting his lips. “There will be time for you to meet Red Bird when you return.”

“Doh-nah-dah-goh-hun-i.”
Inoli turned to stalk off.

His brother’s parting words
—until we meet again
—were custom, but something in his tone made Samuel reach out and grab the man’s arm. “You have another reason for going, don’t you.” It was a statement, giving no quarter to dodge left or right.

Inoli’s dark eyes glittered. Then he pulled away and stalked off.

H
eat sweltered through the front door, waves of it keeping time with the chopping of Samuel’s axe outside. Eleanor fanned herself as she peeked into Grace’s crib. The girl lay in a mess of blond hair that stuck to her cheeks and shoulders, yet her eyelids finally closed. Grace had been cranky and naughty and not just a little teary-eyed all morning. If the last of June were such an inferno, what would July and August bring? How would she even stand it?

Eleanor fluttered her skirts, hoping to create a draft. Oh for a steady London rain.

She rose and edged her sleeves up farther, desperate for air against her skin instead of fabric. Yes, indeed. A little air would be just the thing. She strode toward the door, scooping up an empty bucket on the way. Some water on her feet wouldn’t hurt, either.

Outside, the steady
chuck-chuck
of the axe grew louder. Earlier this morn the noise had chafed, but now the pattern soothed in an odd sort of way. Instead of tromping off into the woods, Mr. Heath had been working at something since after breakfast. What was he doing?

She padded to the edge of the porch and peeked around the corner. The heat of a thousand blazing suns hit her hard, and she reached out a hand to the support beam.

Mr. Heath wore nothing but buckskin breeches.

Eleanor bit her lip, mortified, yet unable to turn away.

Tanned muscles rippled on a back as naked as the day he was born. Sweat glistened on his bronzed skin, kissed by the sun. Four long lines, reddish, puckered, reached from backbone to rib along one side. The same dark hair that grew wild on his head also curled on the plane of his chest.

Her knees weakened. This wasn’t right. She ought not be looking. She knew it in her head, and in her heart, and by all that was right and holy—but her eyes paid no mind. She went right on staring, heart racing. Guilty. And completely enthralled.

With each swing of the axe, his biceps swelled. The strength in one swipe could kill a man. He drove the blade into the wood, and a snowstorm of splinters flew out. Her husband was a work of art in motion. A beautiful, frightening force of nature. Part animal, part divine.

Without warning, he straightened. His body stiffened, and he jerked his head. Dark eyes locked onto hers, asking questions she did not want to answer or even consider.

Ever.

The bucket fell from her fingers. Sweet, merciful heavens! She
was
a strumpet.

She ran from the porch, tore down the stairs, and dashed across the yard, sprinting into the woods. Her skirt caught on underbrush, slowing her, but she didn’t stop. She plowed down the small embankment and right into the stream, stopping smack in the middle, letting the bite of water wash over her feet, shoes and all. What had gotten into her?

A cry of frustration welled in her throat. This land, this wildness, had clearly taken effect, stripping her of dignity and decorum. What kind of woman watched a man without a shirt in broad daylight?

And how had her father known she’d become such a woman?

Wading to the bank, she deflated onto a rock and closed her eyes, trying to think. Trying to pray. But too much anger, disappointment, humiliation—too many emotions even to name—pelted her like kicked gravel. So she sat, a statue. A hard piece of granite, one with the rock.

Eventually, she folded forward. Cool water wicked up her skirt, plastering her shift from knees to toes. She bent forward, trailing her hands in the water, letting her fingertips run along pebbles worn smooth by years of gentle yet persistent pressure. She grabbed a handful and squeezed. Muck oozed between her fingers. Why couldn’t the pressures in her life feel as gentle?

On the far bank, a twig snapped. Ferns rustled. Something moved.

She opened her eyes and sat upright. For the space of a breath, she blinked. Surely she was seeing things.

She shot to her feet before everything shut down. Her breath. Her muscles. Time.

Directly across the creek, a bear lifted its great nose and sniffed. The beast lowered its head, swinging it like a scythe. Black eyes stared into hers, sucking the marrow from her bones. The mouth stretched wide. White teeth chomped, clacking like a hammer.

Lightning charged through her veins, pooling in her hands and feet, all sharp needles and white fire. She should turn. Run. Something. But her feet would not move. Even her heart stopped.

The bear rose up on hind legs. A monster of matted fur, except for a scarred section of naked, grey skin puckered at its throat. Rank muskiness wafted across the water. Like meat left raw on a counter. Like death.

A scream started in the pit of her stomach. Rising upward. Gaining momentum. Stalling in her throat from the enormity of it.

Courage. Take courage!

La, who was she kidding? She opened her mouth to release the squall that could no longer be contained.

And hot, calloused fingers covered her lips, pulling her back against a rock-hard chest.

Keeping an eye on the bear, Samuel bent and whispered into Red Bird’s ear. “Face your fear, Tatsu’hwa. I’ve got you.”

She pressed back into him, her body aquiver from wet skirt to mussed hair.

He widened his stance to keep them both from stumbling.

The bear, still alert on two legs, sniffed and snorted. Good. Curiosity was always better than aggression—and a perfect opportunity to teach the woman what to do should this happen again without him nearby. “I’ll remove my hand, but keep watch.” He willed strength and calmness into his voice, casting it like a lifeline for her to grab hold of. “And do not scream. Am I clear?”

Her head moved up and down beneath his hand.

He slipped his fingers a breath away from her mouth, testing if she’d honor her word. One never knew how a woman given to terror might react.

She didn’t make a sound.

He guided Red Bird behind him with one arm while he stepped forward, placing himself between her and the bear.

The animal dropped to all fours, slapping the ground with a forepaw—the smack of it blazing along the scars on Samuel’s back.

Averting his gaze, he stared at the beast but not in the eyes. He pulled himself to full height and squared his shoulders. There was a fine line between dominance and aggression. He spoke with a firm but soothing tone. “Flee, brother bear. There is no threat here.”

The animal snorted, blowing a fine spray of droplets into the air.

Samuel retreated a step, pushing the woman along with him.

Black lips lifted. White teeth clacked together.

He took another step back.

The bear wheeled about and tore off into the woods, smashing and crashing through the brush.

He smirked. “Safe travels, my friend.”

A strangled cry gurgled behind him, pulling him around.

Red Bird wobbled on her feet, her face drained of color. He grabbed her before she fell. Sweeping her into his arms, he stomped up the bank. For a moment, she tucked her head into his shoulder, a huge shudder rumbling through her slight body. Six strides later, he set her down, her skirts tangling in a heap of fabric around her.

“You all right?” He peered at her. Splotches of color brightened her cheeks now—a little over-bright, but color, nonetheless.

“I hardly know.” Her chest fluttered.

He gave her space and time, two gifts often overlooked but worth more than gold.

Finally, her breathing evened. She turned her face to his, brow crumpling. “Why did you not simply shoot the beast?”

He spread his arms wide. Warm June air wrapped around his bare skin like a lover’s caress. “Do I look like I’m wearing my rifle?”

Her face paled again, and she scooted away, mumbling all the while. “But he, that bear, what if … you might have been killed.” Her eyes widened. “Because of me!”

“No danger of that.” Bending, he slid his knife out from the sheath on his boot and held it up. “I may not have my rifle, but I am never unarmed.”

A curl of red hair stuck to her forehead. A rogue urge to reach out and brush it away tingled in his fingers.

He shoved the knife back into his boot, giving his hands something else to do.

“Should I be armed?” Her voice rose, as twittery sharp as the cardinal chirping from a pine bough. “Is that why you have taught me to shoot?”

He chuckled. Her? Hunt? The woman paled at cooking a dead animal. She’d never be able to take the life from one. “Don’t fret, Red Bird. If you come upon a bear, it is easier to stand and take charge like I did. Tell it to go away. More often than not, it will.”

Her gaze shot to the scars running from his back to his ribcage, burning along each twelve-year-old line.

He frowned. She was too perceptive—was that a virtue or a detriment? A fly buzzed near his eye, as bothersome as the thought, and he swatted it away. “Aye. I learned that lesson the hard way.”

“I do not understand.” She shook her head. Sunlight glinted a fire on the loosened strands of her hair.

Blast it! He forced his face forward, better to not notice such a forbidden fruit.

“Why teach me to shoot at all?” she asked.

McDivitt’s threat reared in his mind, as potentially deadly as the bear. He shoved down a curse and blew out a long breath. “It’s the two-legged animals that are most treacherous of all.”

“Mr. Heath!” She spit out his name like a shot of tobacco, splattering against his ear. “I would never kill a man, if that is what you are thinking.”

“You don’t have to kill a man to stop him. Go for the thigh, then run the other way.”

Recoiling, she slapped her hands to her chest. “Why tell me that? What kind of place is this?”

Frustration punctuated her voice—the kind that crawled like ants beneath his skin. He sat back, gazing upward. The overhead canopy shivered with a hot wind on high. “One that’s getting more dangerous every day.”

T
he trail wove a maze through a particularly thick stand of trees. Samuel pressed on, undaunted. He could hike this stretch with his eyes closed. It’s what lay beyond, past South Ridge Creek, that held possibility. Last year’s trapping had been good, but expanding his route, setting more steel jaws and taking in a greater amount of pelts, that would be better—especially now that he had a wife to feed besides a daughter and himself.

He clicked his tongue and tugged on Wohali’s lead, guiding the horse. Inoli and his mount following behind. He’d waited a full two weeks since his last meeting with Inoli, and now he’d been waiting the better part of the morning for his friend to finally tell him what he hid inside, but no amount of prodding would cause the man to speak before he was ready—a lesson learned long ago.

Each plod of Wohali’s hooves dug deep into the pine needles, adding to the spicy, sweet scent of the woods. Samuel inhaled until his lungs burned. Indeed, this must surely be what heaven smelled like.

The trees thinned, and Inoli caught up to him. “Have you heard from Sutton yet?”

“No.” He angled his head at his brother. “And though you told me Attakullakulla is at Keowee, you have yet to tell me what the elders have said.”

“There is division.” Inoli kicked a rock, tracking the skittering path with his gaze. “Some follow the Beloved Man in joining with the English. They think it is the only way to keep the whites from taking more land. Others still swear revenge against Montgomerie and Grant. Agreement will come at a cost.”

Samuel grunted. Of course it would cost. So many Cherokee lives had been needlessly spent by Montgomerie and Grant, so much suffering and destruction, he doubted agreement would come at all. “And you?”

Inoli’s black eyes shot to his. “You question my allegiance?”

“Just wondering if it’s changed. I question everything nowadays.” A sour taste rained at the back of his throat, and he turned aside to spit it out. It wasn’t right that he must ask his most trusted friend, but betrayal stabbed hardest when unexpected—and by a loved one. He knew that better than most.