The Captive Heart (41 page)

His steps slowed as he neared the place Inoli had fallen.

His brother was gone.

A trail of clawed earth led to the woods. There, Inoli sat propped against a pine. Eyes wide open. Hands folded in his lap. Long legs sprawled out in front of him. Like he waited for nothing more than for Samuel to make a campfire and swap tales of their boyhood long into the evening.

“Inoli?” Samuel skidded to a stop next to him and dropped to his knees, wincing as pain radiated out from his own wounds. “Brother?”

Inoli didn’t answer. Didn’t even turn his face. His chest, shirt fabric ripped where the ball had exited, did not rise or fall. There wasn’t much blood—not as much as there should be. Not if a heart still pumped inside.

Samuel reached out a hand, shaky as an elder’s, and placed two fingers on his brother’s neck. Cold skin. No pulse. The shaking crawled up his arm, skimmed over his shoulders, and settled deep inside, until his very soul shook.

“Noo!” Anguish tore out his throat. How could this be? This man, this warrior, gone? Just like that?

He pulled Inoli into his arms and rocked back and forth. Back and forth. The same motion he used to put Grace to sleep. He might be sobbing. Hard to tell. He didn’t hear anything but a rushing noise in his ears and the thudding of his heart. No more would he and his brother run through the woods, hunting for deer and turkey. There’d be no more exchange of knowing glances, speaking of life and God, of what was to come or what had been.

There’d be no more anything.

By the time Samuel pulled away, night shadows crept from the woods. He laid his brother back against the tree trunk. Blood from the wound on his own chest had soaked into Inoli’s shirt and blended with his brother’s. He pressed his palm against it and stared at his fingers.

“Goodbye, my friend.” The ragged voice didn’t sound like his—nor was it, for he’d never be the same again. Why should he expect to sound as before?

The night was long. The next day never ending. He moved as through a thick fog, stumbling about in a grey mist of grief and pain. He patched up himself and Barton—the other man’s name, he learned—as good as could be expected. Good enough to travel on horseback, anyway. He’d forced Barton to help him bury Inoli … of sorts. With no shovel, nor the strength to dig even if one were available, they stacked rocks atop his body. Samuel fashioned a crude cross of wood and staked it at the head of the pile. Not a usual Cherokee ceremony, but there’d never been anything usual about Inoli to begin with. He was a man unlike any other.

By the time Samuel retrieved the horses, tied Barton to Inoli’s mount, and tracked down the runaway horse with the money, the day was well spent. But Samuel drove them onward despite the lack of light, putting as much distance between him and the awful hurt behind.

More than anything, he just wanted to go home.

E
leanor pinned up her hair by the weak light of a newborn day seeping in through the window. Already dressed in one of Biz’s borrowed gowns, all that was left was to slip on her shoes. Today was a new chapter. A whole new story. One she didn’t want to read but determined to plow through anyway. Fitting, really, that she’d walk out the door of this chamber, the one she’d shared with Biz when she first came to Newcastle, into a different life.

“Yer up early.” Biz’s sleepy voice drifted behind her.

“I intend an early start.” She turned from the window as Biz unwrapped herself from the bed sheets. “Thank you for the gown and, well, for everything. I owe you.”

Covering a yawn, Biz eyed her from across the room, then left the sleeping Grace behind to stare up into her face. “You ain’t fooling me, Elle Bell. I know that look. Seen it before on bawdy house girls.”

“What look?”

Biz lifted her chin. “Yer running away.”

She frowned. With Biz’s uncanny discernment, she’d have made a fine gypsy fortuneteller. “I would not call it such, but since you have brought it up, yes. I am leaving. And I need your help in securing a horse.”

“A horse?” Biz cocked her head. “Where do you think yer going?”

“Charles Towne.”

Biz snorted. “Of all the hare-brained ideas. What the nippity-skippet for? You won’t last a day on yer own.”

“Maybe so, but I cannot stay here.” She folded her arms, turning from Biz’s direct gaze. “Not anymore.”

Biz would have none of it. She scooted around Eleanor, stopping right in front of her. “Why you leaving?”

The question hit her broadside. There were many reasons, some ridiculous—such as her jealously over Miss Browndell—but others were more valid. She gazed into Biz’s eyes, weighing, measuring. How much should she tell her?

A sigh deflated her chest. She owed Biz an explanation, especially after her tearful display in the sitting room the previous evening.

“The truth is that I am not meant for this frontier life. I am not strong like you. Not courageous, despite what Molly says. I am a liability. Do you know how many times Samuel nearly died because of me? It is better for him that I should leave. I will not put his life at risk again.”

“Pah!” Biz spit the word out like a plug of tobacco. “Yer crazy. Seems to me that man can fend for himself.”

Of course he could, but he needn’t fend for her as well, not when her ignorance had nearly cost them all their lives. Her stomach twisted. For a moment, she opened the lid on her sorrow, just for a peek, then slammed the cover shut with a shudder. No, better to carry out her plan and deal with the grief later.

She met Biz’s hard stare. “I wondered if you would care for Grace until Mr. Heath returns? And, as I have said, help me secure a horse for my journey.”

Biz cursed as she paced to the other side of the room and back, the movement stirring Grace in her sleep.

“Take a care, Biz. You will wake Grace.”

“Look, Elle Bell, I don’t know what you got in that delicate little mind of yours, but you have no idea the dangers out there for a woman alone. You can’t ride to Charles Towne by yerself. You’ll never make it. Caw! You’d not last one night on the road without getting into bad trouble.”

Eleanor set her jaw. Of course she’d assessed the dangers, and decided that the odds were nearly impossible. But had she not learned God was the master of impossibility? “I know. Yet it is a risk I am willing to take for Samuel and Grace’s sake. I am in God’s hands. I firmly believe that.”

Biz’s face screwed up, her mouth twitching one way and another, then as suddenly cleared. “It’s more than them, ain’t it. You got something deeper gnawing at you.”

Eleanor jerked her face aside, choosing instead to gaze out at the dawn’s grey light than the dogged pursuit gleaming in Biz’s eyes. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. How could such a former gutter rat know her so well?

“Get it out. All of it. Confession’s good for the soul, or so Parker tells me.” Biz’s steps drew near behind her, and a hand rested on her shoulder.

“Eleanor, please.”

Her throat tightened. Of all the times for Biz to turn soft, she chose this one? She pressed her forehead to the glass, cool against her skin. “I … I feel I need to succeed at something,
anything,
or I shall die on the inside. I have failed here. Dismally. Grace deserves a better mother than me. Samuel, a better wife. A real one. It was a sham, all of this, despite my efforts to make it work. My father predicted I would not amount to much. I guess….” Her voice faltered, the last of her words coming out on a breath. “He was right.”

She fought back a cry and spun to face Biz. “There is nothing more for me here! I am going to Charles Towne, and I will not be turned from it. If I am accosted along the way, then so be it.”

A growl rumbled in Biz’s throat. She whirled, her nightshift swirling around her legs. Storming to a chest at the foot of the bed, she rummaged through the contents. She retrieved something small enough to fit in one hand, then closed the lid and marched back. “Then yer going to need this.”

She placed a crumpled piece of paper into Eleanor’s hands and retreated a step, a defiant light in her gaze.

“What is it?” Eleanor unfolded the paper, heavy with coins inside. Why would Biz give her money? Where had she gotten it from? But … wait. The embellishment of writing on the paper, fine, strong strokes, looked familiar. She tilted the paper to catch the pale light diffused by the poor window glass, and her stomach clenched.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

“I stole it, that’s what. On the passage over. I took it right out of yer gown, when you were asleep on the ship.”

Eleanor jerked her face back to Biz, horrified.

“You know what kind of woman I am.” A scowl darkened Biz’s brow.

“But …” Eleanor gaped. If only she’d had this before, how different life would’ve been. No log cabin. No bears. The only danger a broken fingernail or perhaps a torn hem. She’d have lived in a fine Charles Towne home, educating children in mathematics and French, not chasing after a fair-haired toddler through dirt and brush.

Her shoulders sagged. She’d also have been working for a man and woman far removed from her company. Alone once the children were abed. Banished to an upper room of solitude instead of sharing evenings on a porch with a man she loved. She blew out a long, low breath, a vain attempt at dispelling the pervasive sorrow wrapping around her like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, Elle Bell. Truly. Living with the reverend, well, it’s rubbing off I suppose. I done a lot of wrong. I know that now.” The woman’s head lowered, contrite, repentant—and as out of character as Eleanor’s outburst the previous evening. “Only half the money is there. I spent some.”

Without waiting for a response, Biz lifted her face. “But I didn’t read yer letter. Whatever it says is yer secret alone. I … I can’t read.”

She ought be angry. She ought at least denounce the woman in some way. But Eleanor’s heart broke at the quiver on Biz’s chin. She opened her arms and pulled her friend into an embrace. This was no friend she’d have chosen, but Biz was an unconventional gift nonetheless.

Biz hugged her back, hard. “You ain’t cross?”

“How could I be?” Eleanor released her then grabbed Biz’s hands. “You have just given me a ticket to my future.”

“I did?”

“Indeed. This paper is my reference to an employer in Charles Towne. I shall have a place to stay, a job to do.” She smiled. “You have given me a chance to start over.”

“Start over. I like the sound of that. I hate to see you go, but I understand the need. Why, I’ll take the best care of Grace I can till yer man comes for her, so you needn’t worry on that account.” She squeezed Eleanor’s fingers, then turned and rushed to the door, snatching a wrap off a peg and tying it around her waist. “I best get about finding you an escort. Parker will know if anyone’s planning a ride in to Charles Towne, or maybe even take you himself.”

“But Biz! You are not even dressed yet.”

The woman stopped at the threshold, casting a glance over her shoulder. “Pah! Never stopped me before.”

Unconventional, indeed. Eleanor’s heart swelled. She’d miss this woman, more than Biz could ever imagine. “Thank you. You have turned into a fine woman, as I knew you would.”

An unladylike word flew out of Biz’s mouth, squelching the sweet moment. “I ain’t that fine.”

Once the door closed, Eleanor rushed to the table and pulled out a piece of rag paper from the drawer. Poor quality, but better than nothing. She carved a fresh tip on a quill with a penknife and dipped the tip into a bottle of ink. How did one write a goodbye to a man she didn’t really want to leave? A husband, if only by word and threat alone? It took a few tries, some blotted words, and not just a tear stain but several before she composed a suitable letter:

Setting down the quill, she stared at the words. They weren’t enough, of course. There was so much more to say. But if she gave in and wrote all that was on her heart, she’d never leave here—and even in the leaving, part of her heart would remain.

She lifted her hand to her throat and pulled out the bear claw. All she had left of their time together was this. Wrapping her fingers around the talisman, she debated, long and hard. She ought leave this. A family heirloom should remain with the family. But her stomach turned and nausea rose at the thought of never having a piece of Samuel to take with her for the long, cold nights ahead. She pulled on the tether until it cut into the back of her neck.

But she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t yank it off completely. Could not sever this last tie.

She buried the necklace beneath her bodice and instead slid all but one coin atop the letter to Samuel. She’d need something for the journey to Charles Towne, if only a paltry sum.

She stood on legs that didn’t want to move, not really, and crossed over to Grace. Tangled in the counterpane, the girl slept, curled on her side. Golden hair fanned onto the pillow like rays of sunshine. Eleanor reached out yet refrained from touching the child. It would be hard enough to leave her without the girl watching her walk out of her life. Tears would undo her. Of course she’d loved children before and experienced difficult departures, but this was different. Part of her heart would remain in the tiny fist pressed against the girl’s cheek.