Despite the troubles, though, Josh and Nancy were thriving. The whole front section of their log dwelling was store. They sold food, medicines, tools, clothing, boots, liquor, and even farm animals. They sold coconuts and exotic wild bird feathers, mostly brought in by the Indians. If an object could be acquired at all, it would be sold at their general store.
In the back there was a kitchen and parlor combination, one big, drafty room, but with a fire burning cheerfully in the hugh hearth. Though they were moving into spring, the days were still just a little chilly. Beautiful, Teela thought, with the sun coming through the windows, but inside the cabin it was wonderful to feel the touch of the flames. Wonderful and wild. Josh and Nancy had a full house, with toddlers seeming to be everywhere and the oldest of their children only seven.
A very different kind of paradise, Teela thought, but sitting in the parlor, playing hide-and-seek games with the little, enormous-eyed children, she realized that she was happier than she had been in a long time. Josh was attending to customers, and Nancy was determinedly finding Teela the proper size of good boots for the south Florida terrain.
If only Michael Warren were never to come …
She was down upon her knees playing ball with the three-year-old when she sensed that someone was with her. She spun around toward the door that led to the shop and was startled to see a very tall man with ebony hair standing there, watching her with the child.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He was an exceptionally good-looking man, somehow both rugged and elegant, his appearance entirely commanding. The little girl she was playing with let out a shriek of happiness and went to him, crying out, “Uncle Jarrett, Uncle Jarrett!”
He caught the little girl, sweeping her up, giving her a sound kiss on the cheek, and setting her down upon the ground once again. By then Teela was standing, watching, waiting. “Jarrett McKenzie, Miss Warren. My wife and I have a home down the river, and if you’re in agreement, you’ll be our guest until Captain Argosy returns to bring you to your father.”
“How do you do,” Teela murmured, “and yes, of course, thank you very much.”
He watched her for a moment. “You must be disappointed to have missed your father.”
“Stepfather.”
“Ah … This must be a strange and frightening land without him here to greet you.”
“I’m not frightened easily, Mr. McKenzie.”
He smiled suddenly. “Good. My ship is at the dock. I’ll see to it that your things are brought aboard, and I’d like to leave within the hour while the sun is still high.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to start back through the doorway into the shop. “Mr. McKenzie!” Teela said softly, calling him back. He paused, arching a brow at her.
“You don’t seem to care for Michael Warren very much. Why are you doing this for him?”
He seemed startled, either by her question or intuition. He smiled slowly. “I wouldn’t send you into the wilderness alone, Miss Warren. My wife would never allow it.”
“But you don’t like my father.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Miss Warren, I did not say that.”
“Mr. McKenzie, I don’t like him, either.”
The man laughed suddenly. “Well, then, maybe we can keep you at Cimarron as long as possible, eh?”
Then he disappeared.
Teela didn’t see him again until she was on his ship, with Nancy and Josh at her side, giving all kinds of last-minute advice. She needed to be careful of all swampland, it bred fever. She needed to watch out for insect bites, for snakes, and for ’gators. ’Gators were mean—she wasn’t ever to let anyone fool her on that fact!
“Ain’t too many deadly snakes, just four to be exact. Rattler, pygmy rattler, coral snake, and cottonmouth. They’ll leave you alone if you leave them alone.”
She was just up the gangplank on the deck. The ship was much smaller than that which she had sailed in on, with a crew of only five. She could see one sailor rolling his eyes as Nancy continued her advice. Teela smiled.
She heard the deep, rich voice of her host behind her then. “She does seem like an intelligent young lady, Nancy,” Jarrett commented.
“Forewarned is forearmed!” Nancy said with a sniff. “You be careful yourself,” she chastised firmly, then gave Jarrett a huge, warm hug. “There’s a blanket for the baby in that satchel for Tara, Jarrett McKenzie. You give the wee one a mighty hug for me. And Tara as well. Tell her I’ll come out soon.”
Josh was shaking his head. “Nancy’s afraid to come.”
“Afraid?”
“Ah, well, the settlers here are just getting over their fear that the Seminoles might attack Tampa at any time,” Jarrett said.
“It’s a dangerous river,” Nancy said.
“Not with me,” Jarrett said softly, offering Nancy an encouraging smile. He shook Josh’s hand and gave Nancy a kiss on the cheek. “Get off my ship, now! I’ve a good twenty-four hours to home, and I’m anxious to see my wife and child.”
“Remember, we’re here if we can ever help you,” Nancy called to Teela as her husband escorted her firmly from the ship. She waved in return.
Before long, they had cast off from the dock. Teela kept waving to the couple.
When they were just leaving the city behind them, Teela gasped suddenly, seeing two men in army issue uniforms come tearing down the dock where the small ship had been berthed.
McKenzie stood behind her, she realized. “Friends of yours ” he asked.
“Not exactly,” she murmured uncomfortably. “They’re my—escort.”
“Watchdogs?”
“But really not bad fellows, considering.”
“Do we go back for them?” he asked politely.
“Oh, no. Please, no!” she exclaimed.
“They can find Cimarron themselves, you know.”
She sighed, looking down into the water. “Perhaps. Maybe we should go back. Michael would be furious if he knew they were left behind purposely.”
“Would he really?” McKenzie queried.
She spun around. His eyes were dark. Almost as dark as his hair. There was definitely a devilish light to them now. He leaned toward her, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Then we definitely leave them.” He raised his voice suddenly. “Men! Full sails. Let’s catch what breeze there is. Let’s move from this place!”
Then he turned and left her, and she couldn’t help but smile as she left her first taste of this strange new territory behind her and moved ever inland.
Chapter 2
Cimarron
As James rode through the trail of trees that broke onto the lawn, he stared at his brother’s house, and felt a welcome lightening within his heart. He’d helped build the house, he’d lived the dream of its creation with his brother, and to this day he loved it.
They’d planned to build another together. One that would be his home. Though they’d both grown up for the most part among the peoples who had traveled into Florida and become Seminoles to the whites, they’d both grown up with their good Scots father as well, and they’d been tutored in white ways as well as Indian custom. James knew how to plan and build such a home, and he also knew how to manage fields, cattle, and laborers. He was also familiar with the works of Defoe, Bacon, Shakespeare, among others, just as he had been taught the fine music of Mozart and Beethoven.
But he’d fallen in love when he was very young with an Indian girl. Deeply in love. And he’d joined her clan, because he’d been needed there. And through his mother’s bloodlines he had found himself in line to be a mico for a band who had pleaded for his leadership, and so he had lived with his people in a sprawling, beautiful hammock….
Until war had come.
But no matter how bitter the war that raged, no matter how deep the pain and anger that too often guided him still, he loved his brother, just as he had loved their father, the most enlightened man he had ever known of any race. Sinc
e his birth, his life had always been entertwined with his brother’s—no war could change that.
“James!”
He heard his name called from the porch, and he dismounted from his horse, seeing his sister-in-law, Tara, emerge from the house and start down the steps, running to greet him. He stood by his horse, waiting. When she reached him, he spun her around and hugged her, then set her upon the ground again. She was a stunning woman, golden blond, blue-eyed, as delicate as porcelain, yet absurdly strong and determined. She had made his brother the perfect wife.
She touched his cheeks, as if assuring herself of his health, then stepped back, frowning. He was clad in denim pants and a rawhide vest, with a band about his hair and moccasins on his feet. She shook her head. “It’s still cold!” she chastised him.
“Tara, it’s never really cold.”
“It can be cold enough.”
“It’s spring.”
“The air is cool.”
“How’s my daughter?”
Tara’s eyes went alight and she smiled. “Growing like a weed. She is an incredibly beautiful little lady, James. She is so smart. And so good with the baby!”
“Ah, yes! And how is that little rascal nephew of mine?”
“James, he remains an angel,” Tara said indignantly. “He isn’t much more than six months old. All children are angels at that stage.”
“Well, since he is my brother’s child, don’t count on it for long,” he warned sternly. “But Jennifer is well?” he asked again, a certain note of strain coming into his voice.
He couldn’t help it, couldn’t quite help keeping the fear at bay. At times, no matter how he hated it, he could almost be grateful for the war. It kept him from thinking. From remembering. From spending hours beneath the sun wishing that he could die himself. From the anguish that could never be healed.
From hating everyone and everything white …
“Jennifer is very well, I promise,” Tara said. “Come, you’ll see her.” She caught his hand, leading him toward the house.
“What news?” she asked tensely as they walked.
He was quiet a moment. “There wouldn’t be much new if it wasn’t for Major Warren,” he said.
“I heard,” Tara whispered.
Warren, gaining more power constantly within the military of the territory, was a bloodthirsty bastard. In the midst of mayhem and battle, James had usually found that most white men—even those who thought Seminole emigration westward the only solution to the “Indian problem”—were capable of reason. No man knew better than he that there were whites in the U.S. Army who would refuse to kill a child, any child. Life had taught him to be colorblind himself in judging men. Just as there were men who were innately good among the whites and the red men, there were men of both races who were innately evil.
Warren, he judged, was one of the latter, and he should have been shot long ago.
James had taken up arms against his father’s people, the whites, often enough since the war had begun—he’d been left with little choice. When his family and friends had been fired upon, he had fired in return. But he had never raided into the white world, burned a plantation— killed a white woman or child. When he had been able to do so, he had played the part of mediator. He had pleaded for his people on occasion, seeking reason. He had brought in those determined to obey white dictates and go west, and he had fought for those who were determined to stay. He had straddled a fence dangerously at times, but he had maintained his standing among the Seminoles and remained close with those whites who had always been his friends. It was a wretched existence, one he loathed. One he fought hard to maintain now, because since Naomi and his child had died, he had felt rages so strong he feared he would rip apart anything he touched—a white man’s property, a white man himself …
They hadn’t been slain. They hadn’t been shot down and stabbed through with bayonets, like the women and children and old folks in the village Warren had raided so recently. They had died of disease.
God, but he could remember it all too well. Remember it with a clarity that robbed him of his breath, staggered him with the pain. They had contracted the fever because they had been running. Running deeper and deeper into the swamp because the soldiers were after them. Soldiers who would slay any Indians they came upon, young ones, old ones, men, women, maidens, little children. James had been gone when they had taken ill. He had been traveling in the area of Fort Brooke, engaged in negotiations for friends who were weary, admitting defeat, ready to travel to the dry, barren lands in the far west where the whites had decreed the Indians could live free. Friends had warned him that his wife had stopped her flight because she had been uanble to go farther. Then he had run himself, run hard and fast, a desperation in his soul.
He had run and run and run. But he had come too late. He had almost rejoiced to see that his brother had heard, too, and come in his stead, but his brother had come too late as well. James had come to find Jarrett kneeling on the ground, his black head bent low.
All too clearly he could relive those last few footsteps he had taken then!
When he had approached Jarrett, he had discovered that his brother held the body of his wife, and that Jarrett’s tear fell upon her soft golden flesh. I’m sorry, oh, God, so, so sorry, I loved her, too…
Running, falling. He’d taken her body himself, cradled it there in the earth, sobs like howls shaking from his body, until there was sound no more, until silent tears streamed down his face.
Then he’d discovered that he’d lost his child as well. He’d wanted to die. He’d grieved without thought of water or sustenance, grieved the night, the day, the night, and still, with him, at his side, his brother had remained.
No, he could never hate his brother. But searing, awful fury and the need to strike in revenge had been with him ever since.
His father had taught him all the white ways; he knew the white world. He was no fool, and he knew the whites’ strength, and knew as well that he fought a desperate battle he most probably could not win. But neither could the whites beat the swamp, and therefore they could not beat the Indians. No one seemed to see that as yet.
“How many were killed in Warren’s raid?” Tara asked him, bringing him back to the present.
“Almost a hundred. He had sent out word that food and clothing and extra provisions would be given to any of those Indians who chose to move west within the month. He promised payments in gold. So many women, weary of running, of watching their children starve, were willing to believe him. I could have stopped them if I had reached them in time, but I was near Micanopy while they were south of St. Augustine. They went in ready to surrender, and Warren raided them at night. He claimed he thought it was warriors camping out, preparing to attack white farms, when an outcry was voiced by even those Floridians most hardened against the Indians.”
He decided not to tell Tara the rest. Speaking it out loud made it all the more horrible.
White soldiers had seen to the disposal of the bodies. But news leaked out. Infants had frequently died with their head bashed in—why waste a bullet? Women had been slit from throat to groin; old men had been mutilated as well as murdered.
James scowled. “So much for the cease-fire of March.”
“James, I am so sorry!” Tara said. “I beg you to remember that not all whites—”
“Are like Warren,” he agreed. “It’s just that too damned many are.”
They had come to the porch. Tara led him to the cradle that rocked gently in the breeze. His nephew, Ian, six months old now, lay within it sleeping peacefully. James smiled. The boy was a McKenzie, all right. Despite his mother’s glorious blond hair, his small head was capped with a surplus of shiny black hair. “Watch out for this angel!” he reminded Tara.
She wrinkled her nose to him. “And now—”
She didn’t get to finish. Another little dark-haired creature suddenly came flying out of the house from the back breezeway doors. His surviving daughter, Jennif
er, now going on five years old, came hurtling into his arms. “Daddy!” she shrieked happily.
He lifted her up into his arms, held her tenderly against him. Her little heart beat quickly; she was warm and vital and alive. She smelled sweetly of Tara’s perfume. Nothing was as precious to him in all the world now as his daughter. She was all he had left. She had lived with Tara and Jarrett since her mother and sister had died, and she did so with the full understanding that he couldn’t always be with her. She was so very grown up for her age.
He held her still, but at arm’s length, studying her. She had a beautiful face, slim, golden. Her eyes weren’t his blue but her mother’s beautiful hazel, a shade of green and brown that sometimes seemed to haze together into a magnificent amber. She had pitch black hair that waved and curled to her waist, and she was dressed today like the most elegant of little white children. Tara made beautiful clothing for her, and showered love and attention on her. Poor thing! he thought suddenly, what have I done to her? For she was now a part of both worlds just as he was, torn between them, aching for them both, as he had always done.
“Jennifer, you are ravishing!” He hugged her close to him again, looking at his sister-in-law over his daughter’s shoulder. Thank you, he mouthed.
“Daddy, you are ravishing, too,” Jennifer told him solemnly, taking his face between her chubby hands. “So handsome and formidable. Wickedly dangerous. Absolutely de-lect-albe!”
Startled that such words should come out of a mouth so young, he looked at Tara, who was blushing furiously. “Well,” she murmured uncomfortably, “you do create quite a stir. Chloe, the Smithsons’ daughter, was here to tea the other day with her cousin, Jemma Same.”
“And?” he demanded, baffled.
“Well, they’re young. Impressionable. They think of you as a noble …”
“Savage?” he supplied.
“James—”
“It’s all right. So, my daughter is parroting their words.”
She was silent a moment. “You are … an appealing man, James. I’ve told you that often enough.”
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