The Captive Heart (39 page)

Inoli spoke to the men in Cherokee, but his words were for Samuel. “I take Angus. You take the other. On my mark. One. Two—”

He never made it to three. A shot cracked loud. The ball grazed Inoli’s shoulder.

But that didn’t stop him. Inoli yanked up his bow and pulled back on the string. His arrow sliced into McDivitt’s chest, the force knocking him backward.

Samuel trained his muzzle at the other man’s heart, held a breath to steady his aim, then squeezed his trigger. A brilliant blaze sparked—and the gunpowder flashed in the pan. Blast! He grabbed his powder horn and poured out more black danger.

Too late.

The next shot tore into his flesh. Pain exploded just below his collarbone.

Eleanor scooped her bucket into the creek, dredging up silt along with the water and not caring a bit. Leaden clouds hung low, as gloomy and dark as her mood. And why not? After two never-ending days without Samuel, everything wore a grey pallor. Even Grace was naughtier than usual—though that could be attributed to her time spent with Biz. But the girl did seem clingier lately, almost edgy. Like she knew her father wouldn’t be coming back.

Sighing, Eleanor hoisted her bucket and shook off the melancholy. This was ridiculous. Of course Samuel would be back.

She trudged up the bank, water sloshing over the bucket’s rim. Thunder rolled in the distance and had been all morning. If it were going to be a regular thunderstorm, then why did the heavens not simply burst and be done with it?

But this was different. Something wasn’t right, and it was more than just Samuel being gone. No birds chattered. No squirrels romped. No whirrs, no clicks, no buzzing of insects. The air tasted coppery and smelled of … what? She sniffed as she hiked the path toward the cabin, trying to pick out the underlying odor. Her nose wrinkled when she figured it out. Singed hair, that’s what. The same stink as when a loose lock drifted too near a candle flame.

Setting down the bucket in the middle of the yard, she turned a slow circle, scanning from road to trees to cabin. All familiar. Nothing different, except that dusky shadows choked the life from the day—and it was hardly past noon. A queer desire to pack up Grace and trek the long trail into town rallied stronger with each breath.

And what would Samuel think of that, were he to return home to find them gone? La! What a skittish colt she’d become.

She snatched up the bucket and tromped to the house. Perhaps this was simply how storms went here, giving a warning to seek shelter, unlike the sudden downpours of London.

Giggles leached out the cabin door and she sped her steps, depositing the water supply on the front porch. She froze in the open doorway, eyes widening. “Oh Grace!”

Samuel’s storage chest lay on its side, contents spilled. Grace had pulled out everything and flung it around the entire cabin. Eleanor slapped her hand to her chest, eyes darting from wall to wall to make sure no gunpowder or other dangers posed a threat to the child. A chair wore Samuel’s extra hunting shirt. The ripped pair of breeches she’d meant to sew for him hung off the table like a brown waterfall. At the center of the room, Grace grinned at her, wrapped in Samuel’s fur coat, the bulk of which trailed her as if an animal snuck up from behind. A knife with a broken handle lay inches from the girl’s feet, a chunk of lead to be melted for balls next to it. Other than that, though, no more weapons or ammunition. Samuel must’ve cleaned the chest out well when he’d left the other night.

Relief loosened the tightness in her jaw—until anger clenched it back up. What a mess.

“Grace Abigail Heath!” She growled as she strode to the girl and yanked her arms from the coat a little more forcefully than necessary. Grace wailed, but that didn’t stop Eleanor from grabbing the girl’s hand and marching her to the corner. “You will stand here, little miss, until I say otherwise.”

Eleanor popped her hands onto her hips, daring Grace to move before she turned back to clean up the strewn belongings. Maybe it was a good thing Samuel wasn’t here to see the wildcat Grace had become. And maybe … Eleanor’s fists uncurled, and her shoulders drooped. Maybe Grace’s bad behaviour wasn’t from Biz’s influence at all, but bought and paid for from her own lack as a caregiver. A crack of lightning jolted outside, as jarring as the sudden realization. Who was she fooling? Grace needed a mother, not a governess, and she was neither. Not anymore.

Her throat closed, and she stomped to the chest, righting the thing, wishing with all her heart she could as easily right her life. Retrieving Samuel’s fur, she carried the coat to the bed, then shook it out to fold it. Metal plinked against wood. What in the world?

She bent and scooped up a piece of silver. A ring. Much too small and dainty to fit on any of Samuel’s fingers. Come to think of it, he didn’t wear any jewelry. Narrowing her eyes, she studied the band. Had this been Mariah’s or his mother’s? No stones. Just an engraving on the front—a swirly letter B.

Recognition stole her breath, and she dropped the ring. Air. She needed air. And lots of it.

Dashing to the door, she ignored the cry of Grace as another bolt crackled across the sky. She stumbled onto the porch and leaned one hand against a post. Why would Samuel have Miss Browndell’s ring in his possession? Either he’d stolen it—though with his wealth he needn’t have—or she’d given it to him, but for what purpose?

White lit the yard. An instant blink, followed by an ear-splitting bang. And still no rain. The heavens roared without a hint of satisfaction, as untamed and harsh as Eleanor’s thoughts. Clearly Miss Browndell had made some kind of bargain with him, wielded some kind of power … or attraction.

Samuel’s words barreled back, reverberating in her chest as real as the thunder.
“The less you know, the less likely you are to get hurt.”

Too late. Her heart twisted, truth cutting deep and drawing blood. All the flirtations on Miss Browndell’s part, the feigned rebuffs from Samuel. Of course. What was to stop him from returning to Keowee to claim Miss Browndell … other than his integrity, for he was a man of conviction, was he not? A fierce battle raged in her heart, between her own insecurity and what she’d seen of his character in the past several months.

Another crack of thunder, and Grace bawled from inside. Defeated, Eleanor wrapped her arm around the post and pressed her cheek against the rough wood. She should run to Grace, comfort her with a hug, but her feet wouldn’t move. She wasn’t even a good nanny.

She closed her eyes.
What good am I, Lord?

Everything she set her hand to failed. Her posts in England. Losing her reference for a position in a fine Charles Towne home. Harboring a horse that earned Samuel a whipping. Grace’s horrific conduct. Fail. Fail. Fail. A sob welled in her throat, and she pressed her hand against her lips, stifling the cry. Her mouth trembled against her fingertips, as hot and quivery as when Samuel had kissed her. Obviously she’d failed at that as well, for he’d never so much as hinted at kissing her again.

“You will not please him. You cannot. You will be the death of him.”

The words struck her afresh, spoken by the almond-eyed beauty who knew Samuel long before she did. The woman was right, of course—and she’d been a fool to ever think otherwise.

The next pop of lightning lifted the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. White flashed, lighting the yard as starkly as what she knew she must do. Then blackness. Grace shrieked, and Eleanor pulled from the post.

She didn’t know how or where, but when Samuel returned, she was leaving. He—and Grace—would be better off without her.

W
ounded animals always roared. Samuel was no different. The groan tearing out his throat sounded wickedly primal even to his own ears. The punch of the ball knocked him off balance—and he used the momentum to reach with his good arm for the tomahawk on his opposite hip. He yanked it out, sucked in a breath, then pivoted and let loose. The blade flew.

The man who’d shot him, desperately reloading his rifle to stop Inoli, didn’t see it coming. Samuel’s tomahawk split clean through his trousers, laid open the flesh on his thigh, nicked into bone, then dropped to the ground.

A heartbeat later, Inoli’s arrow took the man in the side of the gut—and stuck there. A banshee’s scream couldn’t have been louder. The man fell backward, grabbing his leg and side.

Samuel dropped to his knees, yielding to the fire between chest and shoulder. He pressed his hand against the wound, a pathetic attempt to stay the blood. Sticky wetness oozed through his shirt and between his fingers. He was alive, though. That was enough. For now, anyway.

“Ya’nu!” Inoli broke into a dead run toward him, alarm darkening his eyes.

The crack of a rifle violated the air.

Inoli stumbled. A dark stain spread on his chest.

“Nooo!” Samuel jumped to his feet, running hard, breathing harder.

Like a downed buck, his brother pitched forward, hitting the ground chin first.

Behind Inoli’s fallen body, McDivitt charged forward, throwing his rifle to the ground. He yanked a knife from a sheath at his belt. Blood grew on his shirt like a cancer, darkest where Inoli’s arrow had pierced through bone and flesh.

Inoli!

Samuel stumbled. But there was no time to mourn. To think. Just to act. Move. Kill—or be killed.

So be it.

Samuel’s war whoop rang from tree to tree. He grabbed the knife at his waist, cleared the trees, then crouched, waiting for McDivitt’s advance.

They circled. A macabre dance. Madness brightened McDivitt’s eyes to an unnatural sheen. He slashed forward.

Samuel twisted, then followed-through on the arc, coming full circle to slice McDivitt’s upper arm. Not a killing slash. Just enough to goad the man into a frenzy—for an angry man fought slipshod.

“Filthy cur!” Angus howled, beads of spit foaming on his beard. “Good-for-nothing half-breed.”

Rage bubbled up from Samuel’s gut, coloring everything red. Hot red. Everything in him wanted to slit McDivitt’s throat, end him here as he’d taken down Inoli. But then he’d be no better than the killer in front of him. He readjusted his grip on the hilt of his knife—and let Angus strike. Repeatedly. Learning his pattern. Memorizing his footwork. Until he knew. Could predict.

Then he roared. “Murderer!”

Samuel jabbed one way, expecting an opposite diagonal slash from Angus—one he could exploit to drive his own blade into McDivitt’s stomach.

But Angus turned and ran.

What?

Samuel tore after him.

Angus dipped, picking up a rock at the riverbank’s edge, then whipped around and let it fly.

The crack to Samuel’s skull juddered from head to toe. He staggered, dazed.

Long enough for Angus to skirt him, reversing positions. Now Samuel’s back faced the rushing water. Two paces, just two, and he’d be sucked under to a murky, choking death.

McDivitt’s teeth punctured his beard. “I been waitin’ a long time for this, Heath.” His grin smeared into a smirk. “Too long.”

McDivitt lifted his blade.

Samuel watched Angus’s eyes instead of the knife.
Wait for it. Wait.
And there. The flash of pride. Of victory. The overconfidence of a man who thought he’d vanquished his enemy.

Samuel shot out his arm, blocking the strike. Stepping forward, he jammed his foot against Angus’s boot. Then twisted. Pulled. Shoved.

Knocked off balance, Angus pitched forward, sailing headfirst into the swirl of white water.

Samuel snapped into action, racing along the bank toward the waterfall. He followed McDivitt’s red head, bobbing along, surfacing and going under in a sick rhythm. As much as he’d like to be finished with the man, his job wasn’t over yet, not until he heard the clang of iron against iron with Angus on the other side of a jail’s bars.

All waterfalls had their cache of deadwood, snagged at the edges, caught in eddies that wouldn’t let go. And McDivitt was headed right toward a heap of hickory logs on Samuel’s side of the river.

Samuel planted his feet and lifted his hands to his mouth, shouting to be heard. “Grab the wood, Angus!”

An arm shot out of the water, clawing for a hold on a jutting limb and finding it. Barely. The rushing water pulled Angus’s legs toward the drop-off.

But he held.

Samuel’s chest heaved. Did he have enough strength remaining to haul the man up to safety without being pulled in himself? He sucked in a breath. He’d have to, God help him.
God help us both.
“Hang on, McDivitt!”

He glanced wildly around for a piece of wood he could extend as a lifeline. The pain in his collarbone burned like wildfire.

“Ain’t goin’ to!”

Angus’s voice yanked his face back toward the river. “Hang on, man!”

McDivitt’s head bobbed under, and he came up spitting a mouthful of water. “I ain’t going with you.”

“Just stay put!” There, shoved up near the water’s edge not far from Angus, lay a half-submerged limb. Samuel lunged for it.

“I’m going with Mariah,” Angus yelled, his voice noticeably weaker. “This one’s on you, Heath!”

“Angus, no! Just wait—”