Under the Same Sky (34 page)

Spring and summer flew by, hastened by exhaustion. Lazy evenings filled with the serenades of crickets turned to longer, darker nights, when the prevalent sound was the wind shuffling thousands of fallen leaves. Autumn heralded the harvest, which provided no relief in the way of rest. There was canning to do, honey to collect from nearby hives. The men brought home rabbits, wild turkey, ducks, partridges, and fish, and occasionally a deer. All the meat that wasn’t immediately used was hung and smoked. Janet wove baskets for the children so they could gather berries. Hours later, they returned home with purple hands and faces. What berries made it back from their outings were stirred into pies and jams.

When nights became too dark for outdoor work, Andrew was
drawn to the hum of Janet’s spinning wheel. Sometimes he sat by her after the children had gone to sleep, watching the golden-brown flax twist into a fine thread between her fingers, flickering by the light of a lantern.

“What do ye think of as ye spin?” he asked her one night.

Without taking her eyes from her work, she smiled and said, “Oh, naught of any great importance. My family, I s’pose. I wonder how my brothers fare, an’ my parents. An’ you? What is it ye think of when yer mind wanders?”

He tilted his head to the side and shrugged. “This and that.” He paused, then a small smile lit his eyes. “We’ve come a long way, you and I,” he said.

She nodded and made a quiet sound of assent, still tapping her foot on the treadle. “And now?” she asked. “What will ye dream of next? Yer no’ the kind to sit still for too long.”

Again he shrugged, then leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees. A dark lock of hair fell forward, and he tucked it behind one ear while he watched the spokes blur.

“Aye, well,” said Andrew. “This is a good life. A man could be happy if he were to live his life here.”

“But you’re no’, are ye? Ye’ve somethin’ on yer mind. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

He grinned and sat straight, rolling back his shoulders and flexing his back.

“Ye’re no’ wrong,” he admitted. “But I’m happy this eve. I’m a lucky man. What I’m lookin’ for will happen, mayhap no’ on the morrow, or the next, but it’s coming.” He paused. “I’ll let ye know then, shall I?”

She laughed. “I’ll ken when that time comes by the look in yer eye. Now run along. Ye look like ye need the sleep, an’ I’ve just
dropped my thread again. I’ll have a time tryin’ to fix it while I’m paiterin’ on wi’ ye. Good night, Andrew.”

He stood and kissed her on the forehead. Janet couldn’t know how right she had been. Andrew did need the sleep. His nights were filled with lonely, uneasy dreams. In the silence of the night, in the solitary existence of his bed, the colourful North Carolina days faded into flat gray images, eclipsed by Maggie’s empty eyes. His dreams conveyed a sense of hopelessness he had never sensed in her before, and it frightened him. If she had been in pain or if she’d been afraid, he might have known how to help her. But she sent no clues as to what held her in this mysterious purgatory. It had to be that she was trapped somewhere. The confinement was draining all of her energy as if it were water. She had nothing left with which to reach him.

Winter drew closer, but the climate remained temperate and there was a lack of truly cold winds, since the surrounding mountain ranges served as protection. If it rained the air cooled, but rarely, if ever, did it become that bone-chilling sleet so common in the Highlands.

Once the harvest was in, the group began to explore the land around them. The grant extended far into the backcountry, and now that they had some leisure time, they wanted to see its boundaries. Some days the paths were awkward and crowded with brush and fallen trees, discouraging further progress. On others, they followed deer trails and discovered wide open areas where they sat, enjoyed picnics, and told stories. One day, as they trudged up a hill through the trees, Iain stopped them with the wave of a hand. They stopped in their tracks and followed the direction of his gaze. Ten feet ahead stood a six-point buck, stretching his golden neck to pluck a cluster of leaves from a branch above his head. Andrew was close enough to see the animal’s jaw shift sideways as the big molars crunched the
leaves. His glistening black eyes stared straight ahead, unaware of his audience.

Flora coughed. It was a tiny, muffled sound, but the buck heard it and froze, meal forgotten. His nostrils flared, sensing the breeze, but Flora was silent and downwind. After a moment, the buck flicked his white paddle tail, dismissing the sound, and reached to pluck something sweet from a nearby shrub.

There were times when this fine specimen would have provided meals for a very long time. There were also times when it was right just to stand and watch.

When the buck moved on, so did the group. They climbed in silence, enjoying the tiny sounds of crackling leaves and chattering squirrels. They moved west, exploring an area they had visited only once before. At the top of the incline they looked over a rock shelf and breathed in the green and gold valley spread like a feast below them.

Janet stood beside Andrew, arms folded across her chest. She sighed.

“Like home a bit,” she said, and he nodded.

“Aye, I suppose so. But better. I’ve no’ buried a body since I’ve arrived. Nor have I raised a sword to anyone.”

“True enough,” she said. “Though I’m pleased to see ye armed all the same. Some of the ladies the next farm over said only a galoot walks this way wi’out his blades. Ye’ve heard the painters at night, have ye?”

Andrew nodded, hearing the soulless screams of mountain cats in his memory. It was almost impossible to sleep after waking to that sound. Andrew automatically scanned the thick branches of trees above him, half expecting to spy one of the huge tawny bodies, tail twitching from side to side.

Seamus approached from behind them, shuffling in the leaves.
“Have we a supper with us, Miss Janet? Could that be what’s weighin’ down yon basket?”

Janet grinned at him. “As a matter of fact, I’ve brought a fine wee supper. Where shall we go to eat it?”

“Here’s good for me,” Seamus said, rubbing his stomach.

Iain cleared his throat. “There’s a better place a bit farther that way. A place to sit where the weans willna fall off a cliff,” he said. “And a wee pond for a drink.”

“A pond?” Seamus asked with a look of dismay. “Have we no ale?”

“Of course we’ve beer,” Janet said. “Come on.”

They turned in the direction Iain indicated, but had gone only a few feet before Iain stopped them all again. He squatted and crouched behind the foliage and the others immediately followed suit, respecting his skill at hunting and sensing danger. Iain motioned for Janet and the children to stay hidden and the three men crept forward, approaching a game trail they hadn’t noticed before. Andrew couldn’t see anything. He glanced sideways at Iain, checking, but the big man was straining to hear, eyes narrowed, looking left down the trail.

Then Andrew heard it. Two men’s voices, and they didn’t sound friendly. They didn’t sound as if they were speaking English, either. Andrew walked silently back to Janet.

“Take the children from here,” Andrew told her. “Seamus’ll go wi’ ye.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Indians, I think,” he said. “Now go.”

She kissed his cheek. “Be careful.”

Seamus, looking slightly disappointed at having to leave the possible excitement, joined her. They took the children’s hands and headed back down the trail.

Andrew joined Iain behind the brush. The voices were getting louder, and their tongue was definitely foreign.

The branches across the way shook suddenly, shaking loose a dozen golden oak leaves. Two Indian men stepped through the leaves, engrossed in conversation. They looked to be the same age as Andrew, tall, muscular, and menacing. One had an injured arm—blood had dried in a black line down his side.

Andrew looked at Iain, who shrugged. Their priority had to be protecting Janet and the children. If that meant engaging these two, they would. Andrew stepped to the side to get a better view—and a twig snapped beneath his foot.

The Indians froze. In one movement, one of the warriors grabbed his bow, fitted it with an arrow, and aimed the point smoothly around the trees, searching. The other gripped the ax that was hitched in his belt.

Iain nodded, a slight, almost invisible movement. It was habit, Andrew supposed, for men to suspect anyone and everyone of being the enemy. Hard experience had made it impossible to trust without reason. Andrew’s chest tightened at the sound of Iain’s sword sliding from its scabbard.

Iain called out and an arrow immediately pierced a tree beside him. Iain burst from the trees, sword at the ready, and Andrew stood by his side. The lithe bodies of the Indians swayed as they watched Iain and Andrew run toward them. When Iain didn’t slow, the taller Indian, the one with the injured arm, gripped his ax and roared toward him. They slammed together, metal to metal, and Andrew turned to counter a similar strike from the other Indian.

It was too fast. The Indian was too close for Andrew to use his sword. He dropped it and reached for his dirk, gripping it across his chest, blade turned for a lethal swipe. The Indian’s eyes were black on his, teeth bared. The men came together with a grunt, grappling for each other’s weapon, snarling and ripping at whatever they could grasp. They hit the ground and Andrew punched the Indian’s jaw,
then used his weight to hold the man under his hands, but the Indian rolled away and sprang back in without hesitation, shrieking, blood running from his nose.

A few feet away, Iain grunted and growled. The steel of his sword rang against the ax’s blade, echoing against the forest wall.

The Indian facing Andrew held a knife in one hand and an ax in the other, and looked to be equally efficient with both. He smiled at Andrew, his eyes wild, blood from his nose painting his teeth red. He rushed toward Andrew, a shrieking gust of unstoppable fury. Andrew pulled back and tried to shift sideways to throw the man off, but the Indian matched him step for step. Andrew needed a new tactic. This man was too good. He stopped, bringing his attacker up short, and swung his dirk close enough to the Indian’s neck that he felt the man’s breath on his skin. But not close enough. The Indian leaned backwards to avoid the blade, then lunged forward.

“No!”

The scream cut through the forest. All four of the men froze, then turned to stare. The woman stood at the edge of the forest, her face white with panic. A woman Andrew had known his entire life. He couldn’t look away.

The Indian took advantage of Andrew’s hesitation. He bowled Andrew over, then knelt on top of him, knife raised. He screamed something Andrew couldn’t understand, and Andrew knew he was about to die.

Then Maggie was there. She grabbed the Indian’s arm, yelling, pulling him off balance. He shouted back and shook her off, then stabbed at Andrew, cutting a glancing blow off his ribs before Maggie was there again, shoving the Indian away. She threw herself over Andrew while the other men gawked in confusion.

“No! No! No!” she cried.

Maggie pressed hard against the slice in Andrew’s side, and he
felt again the energy that had flowed through the mystical rock on Rannoch Moor. The heat was almost overwhelming, like a wave shoved through him, and it sent his mind reeling. Her small hand pressed on his wound, and his entire body surged with power. Again he was bombarded by unfamiliar images and thoughts, but he knew how to focus his mind this time, and he pulled toward her.

“I feel ye, Maggie,” he said.

She jerked up onto all fours and stared down at him, as if she were surprised to hear him speak. Then she leaned forward so her hair touched his shoulders and her breath tickled his cheeks. “Tell me you’re all right,” she whispered.

He chuckled and took her face between his palms. She melted into them, and he felt her swallow a sob.

“Oh, Maggie,” he assured her. “I’m more than all right.”

Soquili stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. As well he might. He had been battling these strangers to the death, bent on protecting Adelaide and me. I had been with her, but she was sleeping soundly, having survived the rough operation I had performed to remove the bullet.

The commotion in the forest brought me running. I raced through the branches, leaping over rocks and logs, feeling strange. As if I ran in a dream. As if my feet didn’t touch the springy moss under me. As if the air didn’t exist.

I burst into the small clearing, and there he was. No longer the wolf, no longer the dream. Andrew stood chest to chest with Soquili, shoving apart from him, fighting for his life. I screamed and everyone stopped moving. They looked at me, then turned back to the battle—everyone except for Andrew, whose eyes were locked on mine.

I don’t remember attacking Soquili. I don’t remember anything
but lying on top of Andrew, feeling his heart beat beneath mine, feeling his breath, feeling the solid truth of him. I pressed against the slash on the side of his ribs and felt his blood run through my fingers. I pressed harder, concentrating on the injury, and felt his heat rise to meet mine. It swelled like a river overflowing its banks. I wanted to drown in it.