The Captive Heart (33 page)

Samuel tugged the brim of his hat, shadowing his eyes to watch the approach of his wife. The bear claw bounced against her bodice as she walked. Grandmother’s prophecy burned a trail to his gut—and lower. If Red Bird knew the significance of the bauble, her prim senses would be mortified enough to swim all the way back to England.

He folded his arms and leaned against the side of the lodge where he waited, toying with the idea of telling her. Such sparks, such an explosion that would be—and God help him, he’d rather that passion be spent in fulfilling Grandmother’s prediction instead of rousing his wife to anger.

Though the smaller of the two, Miss Browndell pulled Red Bird along, their arms linked. Whatever she said caused his wife’s head to shake with a violent dismissal. His former warmth chilled. Miss Browndell’s smirk and the arrogant lift of her shoulder set his teeth on edge. The sooner they shed this snakeskin, the better.

Red Bird disentangled herself from the woman.

He stepped from the wall and faced Miss Browndell. “This is the guest lodge. I suggest you rest, for you’ve been granted privilege to speak at the council this evening. I suspect it will run late. No doubt you’ll have a lot to say … and I’m guessing you won’t need a translator.”

“I daresay you could provide the service though, hmm?” She lifted her face to his. The sun had pinked Red Bird’s cheeks, but not this woman’s. Her skin remained porcelain, as icy and cool as her stare. “You are much more than a guide, are you not?”

He bent and spoke for her ear alone. “I think we’re both more than what we admit to.”

Then he grabbed his wife’s hand and stalked off before the woman could say anything further.

Red Bird’s feet skipped double time to his. “Should I not accompany her?”

“No, you don’t stay there.” He nodded a greeting to old White Owl as they passed. The elder sat on a woven mat near his lodge. His eyes, milky with age, followed their movement.

“Did you not say that was the guest lodge?” Red Bird’s step hitched as she looked over her shoulder, back to where Miss Browndell had hopefully taken his advice and rested—instead of stirring up trouble, as she no doubt would.

“You are not a guest.” He squeezed Red Bird’s fingers. “You are my wife.”

“But where are we going?”

“To my family’s lodge.”

Her fingers wrenched from his, and she stopped smack center of the village. “You may play word games with Miss Browndell all you like, but I will not have it. Who are you? Really?”

Nearby, the steady grind of corn being pounded for bread and the shushing noise of arrowheads being sharpened stopped. Two boys ran past, giggling, but the laughter of three women quieted, their gazes questioning Red Bird’s display. If he didn’t get her moving, soon and quietly, all the aunts would pour from their lodges and circle them like vultures.

He reached for his wife’s hand, a trickle of sweat inching between his shoulder blades. He must maneuver her to move along willingly or more tongues would be wagging tonight than Miss Browndell’s. “Do not shame me. Come. I will tell you all you want to know.”

Her blue eyes narrowed, but she wrapped her fingers in his. “Very well.”

He blew out a long, low breath. Relating his past wouldn’t be easy—but at least since she followed him, it wouldn’t be public. He steered her toward his grandmother’s lodge. How to recount years of loss and confusion in such a short distance?

“Samuel?” she prodded.

If nothing else, he’d married a persistent woman. He peered at her from the corner of his eye. “I may be wealthy now, but I didn’t grow up that way. My father worked the shipyards in Charles Towne, scrapping for every bit of coin he could. And he was a scrapper—Scots-Irish blood in his veins. Thankfully, though, my mother and I were the only mouths he had to feed.”

“But if you grew up in Charles Towne, how can this be your home?”

Late afternoon sun beat against his shoulders. He tried to hold on to the warmth of it, the softness of Red Bird’s fingers entwined with his, the smoky waft of home fires and damp scent of the river. But it vanished. All. How could a man remember so vividly the blood and loss of a boy almost twenty years later?

“I was a lad of seven when I lost them.” The words tasted sour, and he was unsure if he should spit more out or swallow them all. He’d never told any of this to Mariah. He’d never told anyone.

“How?”

He’d have to answer, for she’d not be put off. But he allowed Red Bird’s question to float around until they drew nearer his grandmother’s lodge.

“My father was pressed into service by the British Royal Navy—supposedly the finest fleet in all the seas.” His throat tightened, and he cleared it. “Nothing fine about it, though. He was dead before his ship set sail, caught dockside, the life flogged from him for desertion.”

He shook his head. Even now the brutality still made no sense. “All he wanted to do was say goodbye.”

Red Bird’s eyes shimmered up into his. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m long past pity.” He stopped in front of the open door of Grandmother’s summer lodge. The familiar smell of juniper, sage, and dried hickory nuts greeted him, removing the sting of memories better left buried.

Behind him, grass flattened beneath leather, and a low voice followed. “Ya’nu, a word.”

He stifled a snort. He’d expected Standing Raven to seek him out, but this soon? He’d not been here an hour yet. He swept out his hand toward Grandmother’s lodge before turning to face the man. “Go in and rest Tatsu’hwa. As I told Miss Browndell, it will be a long night. We will speak more later.”

“But … what of you?” The little dimple on her cheek frowned at him. “Will you not come in with me?”

Did she want him at her side simply because she wanted to hear the rest of his story? Or because she was anxious? Or … dare he hope … that she wanted to be with him? He reached and tucked back the same rogue curl that always managed to escape from her hairpins, fighting the desire to brush his knuckle along her smooth cheek. “I will come back for you. Grandmother is inside, and she will be more than happy to care for your needs.”

Red Bird’s nose bunched. “Grandmother?”

He lifted the bear claw at her neck, holding it up for emphasis. “The one who gave you this.”

Her brows shot skyward. “She is your grand—”

“Ya’nu!” Standing Raven called from behind. “Come.”

With a sigh, he turned from Red Bird, ignoring her protests as he strode to Standing Raven. The man didn’t speak another word. His long legs simply ate up ground as he wove past summer and winter lodges. He stopped at the riverbank, folded his arms, and gazed out at the water.

Samuel followed. There was nothing more to be done. One could poke a stick at Standing Raven all he liked, but the man would not be moved until he was ready.

Finally, Standing Raven spoke, without varying his gaze from the horizon. “The Beloved Man has heard of your arrival—and of your white wife.”

Samuel bent, scooping up some pebbles. One by one he skipped them across the water. Two could play at the waiting game. When the last of the ripples dissipated, he turned to Standing Raven. “And?”

“He sends me.” The man looked down his crooked nose, broken several times over—once by Samuel. “He says it is time for you to choose.”

Samuel threw his arms wide. “It is time for everyone to choose. You know the people are not one. Some back the British, believing their lies to stop the stealing of land. Others side with the colonists, for they are many with their firearms and promises.”

Standing Raven lifted his chin. “That is not an answer.”

“Well I don’t have one.”

A scowl pulled the man’s face, the bump on his nose more prominent from the action. “You are as divided as your blood.”

“Do I not speak truth?” He huffed. How to make him understand? “You know the people are not one on this matter, bloodline or not.”

Standing Raven’s jaw hardened. Water rippled, lapping at the banks. A host of sparrows swooped overhead. But the man said nothing, just stared, a study of stillness.

Samuel widened his stance, preparing for the long haul.

He wasn’t disappointed.

The sun shifted lower on Standing Raven’s shoulders before he spoke again. “I have thought these things myself … how to turn my back on brothers I would die for. Yet I stand with whatever the Beloved Man decides.”

“I respect that—but I will not commit.” Not out loud—and especially not to the Beloved Man’s earpiece.

“You cannot straddle a river for long, Ya’nu, and expect to remain standing.”

He grunted. He knew that, all too well … which is why he’d already made his choice.

But if Attakullakulla knew his stance, the man would have him shunned as anathema for some trumped-up reason—and Grandmother, his only living ancestor, would be lost to him forever.

He pivoted and stalked away on silent feet. It didn’t matter the color of skin. McDivitt. Attakullakulla. Black hearts beat in them both.

S
amuel ducked into the large council lodge, trading fresh night air for the heat of many bodies packed into the meeting space. All were here—except those confined to their sleeping mats—even children, though the little ones were relegated to the back edges. And that’s where Miss Browndell’s manservant Mingo squatted. Always in the shadows. Keeping watch over his mistress. His intent was as hard to figure out as a shaman’s dream. The man’s loyalty lay with Miss Browndell, but why?

Beside him, Red Bird gripped his hand tighter. He’d intended to explain what would happen during this council, but she’d slept away the daylight hours. Whatever Grandmother had put in her tea still coaxed a yawn from her. Thankfully his clan sat nearest the door, and he bade her and Miss Browndell to remain near to him. Grandmother nodded her head in greeting as they sat.

Directly across from them, Attakullakulla rose, standing at the edge of the cleared center. Samuel schooled his face to remain blank, but inside his breath caught. How the Beloved Man had aged since he’d last seen him. New creases carved lines at the sides of his mouth and eyes. His head remained shaved, except for a long scalplock, which was now laced through with white strands. Golden rings pulled his earlobes to his shoulders, but likely not from the weight. More like the drooping skin of an elder, matching the flap at his chin.

The Beloved Man lifted his hand, and chatter ceased. “My family, it is an omen the white woman comes the night before I leave for Chota. It was meant.”

Grunts and whispers traveled the circle. Samuel resisted cutting Miss Browndell a sideways glance. No wonder she’d been so insistent on getting here. If she’d missed this opportunity, she’d have had to wait until next year.

“We will hear what the English have to say, and then we will talk.” The Beloved Man retreated to his mat on the floor. “Speak, woman.”

Samuel glanced at Miss Browndell, wondering if she’d understood. More often than not, his instincts proved true. Would they this time?

She met his stare … then slowly rose and advanced.

“Brothers and sisters.” She pivoted as she spoke, ensuring all might hear. “I come with an offer from your family across the big water. The great ones see your land is being taken, that you are pushed from your hunting grounds. And they are in agreement—it is not right.”

Many heads bobbed. But not all. Samuel mentally tallied those who showed no eagerness, then shot to where Inoli’s father sat. The man could be a champion card player should he ever wish to enter the white man’s world. Not surprising. Samuel gave up gaming with Inoli years ago because he always won.

Miss Browndell reached into her pocket and pulled out a single gold coin the size of her palm, along with a folded piece of rag paper. Torchlight gleamed off the scarlet seal affixed to the document, looking like a pool of blood. The image lifted bumps on Samuel’s arms.

“Once you and your son, Dragging Canoe, pledge your warriors, this treaty ensures peace between our people.” She handed the money and the paper to Attakullakulla.

The Beloved Man turned the coin over, the flash of gold gleaming in his eyes. He tucked it inside the opening of his white trade shirt, then pulled out a knife. With a quick jerk, he slit the seal, the movement eerily like slashing a throat. His black eyes traveled the length of the paper, then he passed it off to Standing Raven, who sat at his right hand.

Miss Browndell stood firm, without a ripple to her skirt.

A baby wailed in the interim, and once the suckling smack of lips replaced the crying, Attakullakulla spoke. “Peace will not be had by words and gold alone, woman.”

Next to him, Red Bird shifted, scooting closer to his side. His stomach clenched—even without looking to see what bothered her. Ten to one if he glanced two clans to his right, he’d spy Running Doe giving his wife the evil eye. He knew it would happen. Could see it coming like a far-off storm billowing on the horizon. Likely it was a good thing Red Bird had remained hidden in Grandmother’s lodge all day.

“What you say is true, Great Chief.” Miss Browndell’s confident tone drew every eye toward her. “And this is why, once you and Dragging Canoe sign that treaty, wagonloads of firearms and ammunition await you at an undisclosed cache.”

Samuel stiffened, listening with his whole body. This was why he’d been sent. The single purpose to enduring Miss Browndell’s abrasive personality the past five days. Men would die for this information.

Hopefully he wouldn’t be one of them.

The Beloved Man rose, towering above Miss Browndell’s small frame. Yet she did not flinch.

“Why should I believe you, white woman? Where is your proof?” He grabbed her jaw and held fast. With the snap of his arm, he could break her neck.

Near the door, Mingo shot to his feet—but as quickly two warriors arose on each side of him, both lifting a knife to his neck.

Miss Browndell stood tall. “Release me.” Her words came out garbled.

Tension thickened, as strong as the smell of bear grease. Attakullakulla narrowed his eyes to slits, then released her.

Miss Browndell slipped her hand inside a side-slit in her skirt to access her pocket and pulled out a shiny, new, double-barreled breech-loading pistol—the same type of deadly firearm Major Rafferty carried.