The Captive Heart (16 page)

“We are one, my brother. In life—and after death.”

And there it was. The clue, the opening, the split in the rock for inner waters to spill out. He arched a brow at Inoli. “Then you have changed. Tell me. For we both know you are hiding something.”

A small smile erased the fearsome lines carved at the sides of his brother’s mouth. “When we last spoke, I told you some of what took place in Charles Towne. I did not tell you all.”

Samuel shook his head. “That is no surprise.”

The path turned to follow the creek. Wohali’s tail switched back and forth, flicking at a persistent blackfly.

Inoli waved off a cloud of gnats. “I was seen in the cemetery.”

The words made as much sense to him as when he’d tried to explain to Red Bird how to load her pistol. “You? Who moves as a shadow of night?”

“One cannot hide from the eyes of God.”

Samuel yanked Wohali’s lead, stopping the animal dead in her tracks. A resulting complaint whinnied out of the mount’s raised lips. No matter. Silence signified on a hunt, not on scoping out a new trapping run.

He turned to his brother and folded his arms. “I would hear this. All of it.”

The thin line of tiny blue dots tattooed in a curving pattern on his brother’s cheeks lifted. “A Black Robe rose from one of the tombstones.”

Samuel’s brows shot upward. Why would a priest haunt a graveyard? “From the dead?”

“Now who is the superstitious one?” Inoli’s dark eyes danced. “No. The man said he was told to lie in wait. He did, then fell asleep.”

The information sank in his gut, like one of Red Bird’s meals and every bit as indigestible. “Lie in wait for who?”

“Me.”

“Blast it!” Samuel roared. The echo rifled out along the creek and into the woods. “You were compromised. McDivitt’s men must have—”

Inoli shook his head, his braid swishing like spilled ink against his shoulders. “No, my brother. Those men had already been dealt with. The Black Robe said it was God Himself who told him to go to the stone and wait for a fox. I startled him, for he expected an animal, but even more, his words startled me. The man spoke the first people’s language.”

“Odd, indeed.” Why would a Charles Towne priest speak Cherokee? Unless the man had been a missionary, which could be plausible. Still … the tale shivered down his spine. “And the man’s reaction when you told him your name, Black Fox?”

“As surprised as mine when he spoke of the White Christ.”

Samuel rolled his eyes. “I have told you the Gospel time and again.”

“Yes.” Inoli grinned in full, his teeth a white burst of sunlight on his tanned face. “But this time I heard it.”

Stunned, he searched his brother’s shuttered eyes. The man was a master of hiding his true self. Could it be? Since his own conversion a year ago, he’d spoken of nothing but the grace that saved his life, and all to no result. But there, in the depths of Inoli’s gaze, there was no compromise. No guile. Only truth and light and … what?

He looked deeper. The restlessness, the haunted hurt was gone, replaced with a serenity he chided himself for not noticing when they’d last met. He reached out and clapped Inoli on the back. “My heart is full, my brother.”

“As is mine.” Inoli pulled away and lifted his chin, proud as ever but in a completely different way.

Samuel clicked his tongue and started them on the move, following the bank. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

“Does one shout of his wedding night the morning after, or does he lie sated with his lover? I needed time with God alone.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. The man was as blunt as a dulled axe blade. “Indeed.”

He stopped before a bend in the creek, near a mound of limbs and dried undergrowth. Leaving Wohali to drink her fill, he ambled up the bank to relieve himself of the skin full of water he’d drunk not too long ago, then stopped suddenly before going any farther. Near the base of a tree lay a dead beaver. Some flies landed, but not many. Newly killed, then. Strange. So far from the water? Grabbing a stick, he turned the thing over. The animal’s guts spilled onto the ground, uneaten, split wide by the slash of a claw.

Narrowing his eyes, he surveyed the immediate woodland. Squirrels scurried from brush to trunks. The rattle of cicada’s whipped into a whirring. He massaged the back of his neck as he called for Inoli. “Something’s not right.”

His brother scrambled up and squatted next to the carcass. “It’s a fresh swipe. Bear.”

“Then why not finish eating the kill?” He turned to his brother. “And why kill at all? Berries are abundant.”

“Maybe it got scared off mid-meal. Maybe by us.”

“No. We would have heard it.” Samuel scoured the nearby landscape, then strode to a disturbed piece of ground and squatted. A massive bear paw scarred the dirt. He measured the depth of the indentation with his forefinger. “Looks to be a three-hundred pounder.”

Standing, he exchanged a glance with Inoli.

His brother rose, lifting the remains of the beaver by its hind legs. “Will you keep this?”

Unease crept across his shoulders. Unlike man, bears didn’t kill for the thrill of it. “Aye, but bag it and let’s move on. I don’t feel right staying here.”

Retrieving the horse, he and Inoli tromped through the woods, stepping on twigs, kicking through glossy rhododendron and hemlock shoots. Creating enough noise to frighten away any wild animal.

Not much farther, four ravens swooped and dove. Inoli sucked in a breath.

Samuel released Wohali’s lead and ran, scaring off the scavengers and dropping to his knees next to a dead deer. Once again, a mighty slash gaped from ribs to flank.

Air whistled through Inoli’s teeth as his feet stopped next to him. “Four ravens. It is an omen, my brother.”

“Omens and faith do not mix.” Samuel stood, looking out at the endless wildness. He didn’t need omens to tell him something evil lurked in this stand of pine. The churning in his gut was enough.

But he did need faith to conquer the fear crawling up his throat. “We may have a hunt on our hands for a rogue bear. Let’s hope not.”

Eleanor dipped the rag into the bucket, wrung it out, then bent to scour the wooden planks. Who’d have thought that signing on as a nursemaid would also include the work of a below-stairs servant? She smirked and scrubbed a little harder.

Behind her, the bucket crashed. She shot to her feet, lest her skirt take the brunt of the dirty water.

“Uh-oh!” Standing in the puddle, Grace lifted a chubby finger to her mouth and surveyed the spreading flood.

Eleanor sighed. Who could be angry with that?

“Well, little one,”—She snatched up the bucket—“I suppose I needed fresh water. A trip to the creek for us then, hmm?”

“Creeeeeeek!” Grace squealed, clapping her hands.

Eleanor grabbed her pistol and powder horn off the table, tucking both into her pocket on their way outside. No matter what Samuel said about bears, she’d feel better using a firearm instead of only her bravado. Days of practice whenever Grace chanced a nap increased her confidence. Why, a few more weeks, and she just might give Mr. Heath a challenge at marksmanship.

Clouds ambled across the early July sky, dragging shadows along the ground. Grace darted from shady patch to shady patch, stopping in each one and twirling. Oh, to be so joyful, so pleased with the simple gifts slipping from God’s fingers.

“Why not?”

She spun, expecting Samuel to be standing behind her whispering the words. But no one was there. The space between her and the house was empty.

Grace’s giggle turned her back around. The little girl held out her hand, clearly inviting her to join the game.

Eleanor nibbled her lip, the
“why not”
flitting across her mind like the shadows on the ground. She darted a glance around the edges of the yard. No Samuel. No one. So why the queer feeling eyes watched her every move?

“Etsi!”
Grace squealed, flailing her fingers toward her.

Who knew what the word meant, but it didn’t matter. The girl’s bright eyes said enough. Clutching the bucket in one hand, Eleanor dashed forward and entwined her fingers with Grace’s. They raced from shadow to shadow, Grace squealing happy, her smiling big.

Until they entered the woods—the dividing line between safety and wilderness. She’d seen maps of the Americas before, and where the cartographers had left off between explored land and that which no one had yet set eyes upon, they printed the words
here be dragons.
Her smile faded. Perhaps they ought change that to
here be bears.

Nearing the bank, she stamped a small area of ferns, creating a flattened play area for Grace. She gathered a few rocks and some sticks, then set them in a pile. “Sit here, Grace. I shall be back in a thrice.”

She waited until the girl whomped onto her bottom and started stacking the rocks into a tower. The gravel path, worn from daily use, crunched beneath her shoes. She paused several yards before finishing the descent, eyeing the far bank. The ferns rustled, but only by a slight breeze. No sticks cracked. No gamey odor. Nothing to indicate a threat by black fur and white fangs.

Eleanor shifted her gaze side to side. A shiver skittered across her shoulders even though God’s creation appeared to be all greens and browns and placid beauty.

La, what a flappable ninny she’d become. She padded down to the water’s edge, the creek shrinking smaller every day without rain. Bending, she kept one eye on the spot where the bear had reared a week ago and dipped in her bucket.

A child’s scream tore through the woods.

Grace!

Eleanor dropped the bucket and pulled out her pistol, all at a dead run up the embankment. Could she shoot a great beast? What if the thing had the girl in its jaws? She sprinted faster, leaping up the last of the ridge.

Ten paces ahead, Grace stood pointing at the ground. Another screech ripped out her mouth.

Heart racing, Eleanor scanned from trunk to trunk, shrub to shrub, past fern and hemlock and spindly-limbed oaks. No bear. No wildcat. No danger.

Grace screamed again.

Eleanor pocketed the pistol while closing the distance between them. Her gaze followed the child’s index finger, aimed like a rifle barrel at the greenery. A large, hairy spider crept over her pile of rocks.

As much as Eleanor hated spiders—and this one was enormous—the tension in her jaw loosened. She swept up Grace, who clamped her arms around her neck in a chokehold, and rescued the child back to the gravel path.

“Well, that was frightening, was it not?” She kissed the crown of the girl’s head. “All is well now, my sweet.”

She bent to set her down—then immediately straightened, clutching Grace as tightly as the girl rewrapped her body against hers. To their right, underbrush crashed. Sticks cracked. Something big. Something fast.

Something getting louder with each heave of her labored lungs.

Her throat closed, and not from Grace’s clutches. Fear sprouted on her brow, her spine, the soft, tender skin just behind her knees. This time there would be no Samuel to save her.

Oh, God.
Her mouth dried to bleached bones.

Whatever it was came at great speed—trapping her and the girl between house and stream. Easy prey.

Grace squirmed, her foot kicking the pistol in Eleanor’s pocket and driving it into her thigh, shattering the horrible trance.

Eleanor whisked the girl to the ground and yanked out the pistol, so quickly the powder horn fell to the dirt in the process. No matter. She’d make the first shot count. Opening the hammer wide, she fingered the trigger and squinted through the trees. Ten yards away, a flash of white blurred between black trunks. A great snort filled the air—and hooves pounded a rumble against the earth.

Hooves? Bears didn’t have hooves.

“Thank You, God,” she whispered. Though it was but a runaway horse, her legs still shook and her fingers jittered as she tucked away her firearm. She spun to pick up Grace.

But the girl squatted with the powder horn, cap off and upturned, raining black granules over the fingers of one chubby hand.

“Grace! Very naughty. Give that to me, now.”

The girl blinked up at her, but thankfully complied. Samuel would surely not be pleased to discover such a waste. Why could she not seem to manage one small child?

She grabbed Grace’s hand and wiped it on her own petticoat, then entwined her fingers with the girl’s. The short amount of time it took for Grace to get into trouble was staggering. Perhaps a nap would do them both good. She sped down the path then paused at the edge of the woods.

Near the stable, a rawboned horse pawed the dirt. What on earth? Why had the thing halted here?

Eleanor ushered Grace across the lot to the porch and pulled out a small ball of twine from her other pocket—a lifesaver she’d learned kept the child occupied. String, of all things. The charges in the rich houses she’d served in weren’t even satisfied with a porcelain doll or illuminated picture book, yet Grace could play for hours with string.

“Stay put, Grace,” she ordered, then left the girl behind with the improvised toy to see about the stray horse.

The white mount, all bones and whinnies, nudged the stable door with its nose.