The Captive Heart (38 page)

But what if McDivitt decided to carry out his threat while Samuel was gone? She lifted her face to his, trying to hold back the fear from quivering in her voice. “Does that mean you will stay here, or will you still leave tomorrow?”

For a moment, he stood there. Granite. The calm before a terrible squall. A muscle jumped on his jaw.

Pivoting, he tramped to the door and disappeared inside.

Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself, warding off the early evening chill—but it did nothing to stop the coldness seizing her heart at the thought of Samuel’s absence.

Samuel stared out at the blackness from where he sat on the porch. Something wasn’t right about this night. The crickets were too loud. The cicadas, too buzzing. Everything was brittle. Sharp. Like walking on a thin piece of ice, knowing the hairline cracks were about to give way and frigid water would swallow him whole.

Judging by the way Inoli stood on the edge of the front porch, arms folded and alert, he felt it, too. Even Grace had cried herself to sleep, a wailing cry, the eerie keen of something more than fatigue.

“The air is not right.” Inoli spoke without turning around. “You should not go to Charles Towne. Not yet.”

“You sound like Grandmother.” Samuel grunted. “And if I don’t make haste and return to Chota as if I’ve done nothing more than make a run to Fort McCaffrey, then Miss Browndell and Attakullakulla will know I’ve been up to something more. I would be exposed for what I am.”

“And what is that, Ya’nu?” Inoli’s black gaze drifted over his shoulder and pinned him in place.

He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“You are an honorable man. At times, too honorable.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Inoli faced the yard again, his back rigid. He stared into the night as though he could see what evil awaited them. “You cannot right all the wrongs in this world. You will die in the trying.”

The crickets stopped. So did the cicadas, replaced by a low rumble in the distance. Samuel shot to his feet, snatching up his rifle as he went. Lights like fireflies flickered in the east, growing larger. The pounding did, too. He and Inoli stood ready, waiting, silent. No words were needed. They’d hunted together for so many summers, they moved as one.

Five horses thundered up the road, each rider carrying a torch. Stane led the pack. Foam gathered at the corners of his mount’s mouth, and the horse reared when yanked to a stop. Men and horses spread out in front of the porch, Stane at center.

Blood rushed in Samuel’s ears. Something big must’ve happened to warrant a ride in the dark way out here.

“We need you, Heath.” Deep breaths poked holes in Stane’s words. “Mercantile vault’s been robbed. Cleaned out.”

Samuel cradled his rifle. “What’s that to do with me?”

Torchlight danced over Stane’s grim jawline, the shadows making him more ghoul than human. “Sutton’s lying near to dead because of it.”

Every muscle in him clenched. Ben Sutton had been the only man who’d never looked askance at him, not once lifted an accusing brow or whispered what Samuel’s part might’ve been in Mariah’s death.

Samuel forced words past his tight throat. “Who did it?”

“Two men. One, a stranger, rode in during the Summer Outfit. The other”—Stane’s horse shied sideways, and he reined him in—“McDivitt.”

The name pierced like a well-aimed arrow, and he widened his stance to keep from staggering. McDivitt had taken it too far this time. Crossed the line. This wasn’t just about robbing a vault. Taking down Sutton was a direct strike against Samuel. His hands shook on the rifle stock.

“How long ago?” he asked.

“Few hours. Will you lead us?”

One man—Pickens—tipped his hat. The rest sat stony-faced, torchlight licking their faces like the flames of hell.

Blast! What to do? If he went after McDivitt, could he still make it to Charles Towne and back to Chota in time?

Stane spit out a curse. “Time’s wasting, man. What do you say?”

Samuel glanced at Inoli, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He cut his gaze back to Stane. “Go on home. All of you. I ride with Inoli alone.”

Stane roared. “You can’t—”

“You challenging me?” Samuel stared him down. “I’m the best hope you’ve got if you want them brought in. Remember what happened with Blacking.”

The torches sizzled. One horse snorted. Another pawed the ground. No one spoke.

Finally Stane shook his head. “Every man here had money in that vault.”

Rage tasted bitter, traveling down his throat to his gut. “I got more than money riding on this. Sutton’s my friend.”

Stane’s gaze seared into his. Then he gave a stiff nod and jerked his mount around. “Come on, boys.”

The horses rumbled off—yet the crickets did not resume their song.

Inoli said nothing as Samuel stalked into the house. Shadows filled the tiny cabin, but he didn’t need any light. Anger burned bright enough inside him.

Red Bird stood at the window. He breezed by her toward his storage chest.

“Samuel, please tell me what is happening.”

Her words hovered in the night air, as unnerving a sound as Grace’s choppy breathing. He ignored both and rummaged in the chest, pulling out bags of shot, his spare powder horn, and an additional knife for his other boot.

Footsteps padded behind him. “You are frightening me. Please, tell me what happened.”

He reached inside his hip pouch and pulled out Miss Browndell’s ring. No sense losing that on the trail—for no doubt this would be quite a ride. The metal heated his skin, and he squeezed the life from it before splaying his fingers. The ring landed silently inside his storage chest, a small act, setting a course he would not be able to turn from.

“Samuel?”

He slammed the lid shut, slid the knife into his boot, and swung the extra powder horn and hunting bag over his shoulder. Then he stood and faced his wife.

Everything in him screamed to pull her into his arms, kiss away the fear on her face, whisper endearments that would redden her cheeks. But it wasn’t time. Blast! It was never time. And what if …
Oh God
… Closing his eyes, he swallowed, throat tight. What if it never would be time for them?

Then better he withdraw. Here and now. Not start something he didn’t know if God would give him grace enough to finish.

His eyes shot open, and he branded her image into his mind, for this could very well be the last time he saw her.

When he walked out the door and hunted down McDivitt, it was kill or be killed.

T
wo days of stifling heat, increased winds, and now this.
Doomed.
Samuel picked up the word as he might a pebble in his shoe, then as forcefully flicked it away while he squatted and studied the forest floor. Thundering remnants of an earlier cloudburst rolled in the distance, the rumble mimicking his frustration. Not enough rain had fallen to quench the drought-ravaged land, but the right amount to wash away McDivitt’s tracks. Standing, he kicked a stick with the toe of his moccasin.
Now?
Three months with no rain and a thunderstorm had to break now?

He wheeled about and stalked back to where Inoli held Wohali’s lead. Snatching the leather strap, he frowned up at his friend. “Nothing.”

Inoli simply stared at him.

Growling, Samuel swung into the saddle and yanked his horse around. “Whoever McDivitt’s tangled himself up with is good. Almost too good.”

Inoli drew next to him. “Yet you do not turn back.”

“No. I’m not giving up.” He scrubbed his face with one hand, thinking hard. “They have the advantage of the elements, but we know this land. Where would you go if you were being hunted?”

“West. North and south are too peopled.”

“No, that’s too general a guess.” Loosing his hold, he allowed Wohali to ramble on while he followed a trail in his mind. Of course they’d head west—as were he and Inoli. But how, specifically? What route? McDivitt would take the path of least resistance. Always had. But the other man surprised him with his twists and turns. He’d taken the bottom of a ravine when Samuel would’ve chosen higher ground. Picked along a rocky crag when splashing through what was left of a river would’ve been easier. So, what was the most unlikely course from here?

He scanned the forest, this time looking for an impossible passage westward instead of logical. Not far off, his gaze landed on a deer trace that cut northerly. The wrong direction, but one that would eventually curve back and pass near a salt lick next to Stoneclad Falls. Stoneclad?

He reined in Wohali. Stoneclad sported a jagged drop of sheer cliff. The waterfall was terrible. The swirling expanse above it too risky to cross. The river at the bottom was cursedly wide, though much shallower—if one could navigate down the treacherous landscape to reach it. But once there and safely across, the country flattened. There’d be no stopping them.

His gut tightened. That was it.

He glanced over his shoulder at Inoli. “Stoneclad Falls. That’s where they are.”

“How do you know?”

“Just do.” He kicked Wohali into action and shot forward on the deer trace, pressing the horse as fast as he dared on such a narrow track. They rode for the better part of two hours. Now and then the ground dipped, and he adjusted speed, slowing their progress. It wouldn’t do to turn Wohali’s ankle, not when he felt sure they were finally on the right track.

Farther on, Wohali pinned back her ears and slowed to a trot. Samuel scanned from tree to tree. What did his mount sense that escaped him?

There. A deep impression in the dirt. Some kind of skirmish, maybe?

Samuel tugged on the reins and jumped off, Wohali nickering a complaint. Five paces from the trail, a horse lay on its side. Samuel circled the carcass as Inoli dismounted. The front foreleg of the poor beast was bent at an ugly angle near the ankle, bone breaking through the skin. Glassy eyes stared at the sky, an entrance wound near the temple—and another accompanied by an exit hole through the neck. Samuel crouched, examining the torn flesh. Either one would’ve been sufficient. Why two?

“What say you, Ya’nu?” Inoli’s quiet voice was a rustle of leaves, nothing more.

Samuel stood, rubbing his jaw. “Horse went lame. That’s clear enough. Put down recently, since the body is not yet stiff and scavengers haven’t eaten their fill. But I can’t account for why they’d waste two shots. That doesn’t make any sense.” He met his friend’s gaze. “Still, this slows them. We have the advantage.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way. Sure enough, the closer they drew to Stoneclad, the more signs he picked up even from atop his mount. A half-curve of a hoof print. Droppings. And as the rush of the waterfall grew louder, so did men’s voices.

Angry ones.

He slid from his horse and tethered Wohali to a tree. Inoli did the same. Slipping out his rifle from the side holster on his mount, he checked to see the ball was still tightly snugged down in the barrel. Inoli removed the bow from his back and carried it loose-fingered, arrow fitted, ready to snap into action. Their gazes met, a thousand words traveling between them, then Samuel set off toward the falls on silent feet, Inoli flanking him ten yards to his left. At the edge of the tree line, before growth gave way to a flattened strip of rocky land running along the river, Samuel held up his hand. They both froze.

Ahead, Angus McDivitt and a squat excuse of a man faced off, each holding a pistol, cocked and ready to fire at the other’s chest. A lathered horse stood closer to Inoli than to Samuel, loaded with bags and head hanging. If they didn’t give that horse a rest soon, he’d meet the same fate as his partner back there on the trail.

“Shut up, McDivitt!” The shorter man cursed. “I’ve had more than enough of your mewlin’.”

“You’ve near to killed me at least five times today, but that’s yer plan, ain’t it? No! I’m not going down that cliff’s edge, and neither are you. We backtrack and cross the river up higher, where it’s safe.”

Rage twisted Angus’s voice. The man was dangerously close to pulling the trigger. Good. Let the two of them finish each other off.

Samuel glanced over at Inoli and blew a sparrow call. When his brother’s dark eyes slid to his, he lifted a finger and pointed to the horse bearing the stolen money bags. Inoli gave a slight nod. Bow and arrow still at the ready in one hand, he crept out from his hiding place. He held out his other hand in a gesture of peace to the animal, who’d lifted its head, already catching the man’s scent.

Samuel lifted his rifle, quietly cocking the hammer wide open. He trained the barrel on the fighting men, in case one of them spotted Inoli. Once the horse was out of the way and secured, he and Inoli would each wound a criminal and haul in their sorry backsides for justice.

A ghost of a smile eased the tightness of his lips. Angus McDivitt facing the law instead of brandishing it.
Oh God, make it so.

From the corner of one eye, he saw Inoli stalk forward, an animal on the hunt. Closer. Five, maybe six more steps and—

The horse shied from him with a whinny. Two rifle barrels immediately swung toward Inoli.

Curious how time slowed in the last moments before death arrived. The thing was, though, that one never knew who would receive the calling card first.