Runaway

by Donna Cooner

  She was going to die, she thought. Right here, today, in this swamp-rotting jungle.

  She could have made things easy for herself. She could have drowned in the Mississippi.

  She could have given the hangman her throat!

  But, no, she had fought, she had run. And the salvation she had found in Jarrett’s arms had been false, for though he had protected her once, he had abandoned her here.

  She stared at the Indian on the horse again, then lifted her chin and decided that she was not going to be murdered, scalped, and mutilated without a damned good fight.

  She smiled. Then she cried out, “You redskinned, murdering bastard!” And she came at him. Running wildly across the pine-carpeted path that separated them, she pitched herself at him with such a frenzy that he was thrown from his horse. She landed atop him, and certain that it would be her last living act, she raised her fists wildly to pummel him again and again.

  Shouts rose all around her. The man beneath her let out a furious cry that must have been an Indian oath, but she was heedless of it. She slammed her fists against him viciously.

  And she suddenly found him straddling her, those blue eyes piercing into her soul. He swore again, capturing her wrists. The others were laughing now, calling out taunts. She could still feel those eyes.

  Something familiar. He had a handsome face. She was becoming hysterical, she told herself. Losing her mind. She was about to be murdered, and she was thinking that he was a proud and striking warrior.

  He leapt up suddenly, reaching down a hand to her. “Come!” he snapped out in English.

  He leaned down to help her up. She spat in his face. He swore again, in his own language this time, and she screamed when he grabbed her wrists hard, dragging her up, throwing her over his shoulder.

  In a bound he was upon the bay horse. They were not treading lightly through the pines and foliage, there was no hesitancy in this wild ride.

  They were running deeper and deeper into the savage land.

  Chapter 13

  Jarrett came down the river on old man Johnson’s barge. It was a little more than a two-day trip, but it was an easy one, and they were nearing the end of it now.

  Johnson, older than any man Jarrett had ever met, toothless, white haired, stooped as a gnarled branch, had been in the area longer than any other living white man, and perhaps because of his age, or perhaps because he had become part of the scenery, the Indians seemed to have no war with him, or Johnson with them. He wasn’t frightened of an attack, and when the officers at the fort had suggested he might want to stay in town for a while, Johnson seemed amazed. “As if I’d want to stay in some house with ruffled drapes on the windows—and walled in!” Johnson complained to Jarrett once they had gotten under way. Jarrett, anxious to get home, shrugged. He didn’t know where Johnson hung his hat anyway—the only time Jarrett had ever seen him was on his barge. And since Johnson was determined to keep running up and down the river come what may, Jarrett was just as glad to take the barge home. He’d been driving Charlemagne night and day with the Pattersons, anxious to bring them to Tampa where they would feel safe. Charlemagne didn’t mind the river trip one bit, and with bridges and roads being poor, it was still faster than coming home by land.

  “They tell me I’m in danger!” Johnson said, offering Jarrett his wide, toothless grin. “Danger! What the hell, danger—they trying to tell me I’m going to die young?” Johnson went into gales of laughter, while Jarrett grinned. But then he pulled his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes and leaned back against one of the poles that created a roped-in square around the barge. The day was warm, the river gentle. He relaxed, leaving one eye half open to survey the shore now and then. Once again he was certain that his movements were being watched. The United States government was now at full-scale war with the Seminole Indians of the Florida Territory. Tyler had come out when Jarrett had left Tampa, bringing him the latest news. At General Clinch’s request acting governor George Walker had ordered militia general Richard Keith Call to raise Florida volunteers to join the regulars for one big campaign against the Indians. Andy Jackson had ordered General Winfield Scott to take command in Florida, and fourteen companies of regular soldiers were to join Clinch’s command.

  Some soldiers were already wondering just what they were in for.

  And yet Jarrett was aware that the massacre of Major Dade and his men, appalling to the whole of the country, was now fading in importance outside of the Florida Territory because of a tragic event that had just occurred in Texas.

  Well over one hundred American heroes had been massacred at a little mission they were calling the Alamo. The men, it seemed, had held out against incredible odds, praying for help. Even when they had known that help wasn’t coming, the men hadn’t surrendered, because it had been of the utmost military importance to keep the Mexican general Santa Anna from moving onward to fight other battles. Every fighting man within the place had been killed, including the renowned frontiersman Davy Crockett, and the great fighter James Bowie. It was a tragedy of such dimensions that the entire country was up in arms, and so poor Major Dade, whose body still was rotting in the wilderness, had been largely forgotten. Except here in Florida, where Texas heroes might be admired, but where life was still a dangerous game at best.

  Jarrett had met both men when he had been but a boy himself, and though he’d known they were both quite human—apt to quarrel, definitely rough at the edges!—he felt the great national sorrow at their passing. They had given everything to their country, and in the end they had died giving their last valiant effort to the battle for their friends and countrymen.

  “Seems there’s some anxious to see you get home,” Johnson said, interrupting his thoughts. Jarrett pushed back his hat, squinting as he stared toward the shore. It seemed that a number of his household had turned out to watch the river. Jeeves stood on the deck; Rutger, mounted, looked as if he were ready to race downstream and shout to him. Even the little Italian laundress, Cota, stood there anxiously.

  Jarrett stood, hands on his hips, searching. Tara was not there. What had he expected? That she had suddenly decided to give her all to him because of that last night they had shared together?

  She should have been there. If everyone else was on the dock, waiting.…

  The barge had barely pulled toward shore before Jarrett leapt from it, striding for the place where Rutger and Jeeves unhappily awaited him.

  “What’s happened? Where is she?”

  “Gone, Mr. McKenzie,” Rutger said. “We followed her into the woods, but then her trail clean vanished. She meant to elude us, Mr. McKenzie, and that’s no excuse, but—”

  “What did she take?” Jarrett demanded of Jeeves.

  “Food,” Jeeves admitted. “Extra clothing, so Cota thinks. She may have just planned a day trip.”

  “We’ll go after her, Mr. McKenzie. The boys and I will go after her, and we’ll find her.”

  “I’ll find her myself,” Jarrett said flatly. “Rutger, get Charlemagne, give him a good rubdown. Jeeves, give me a roll of clean clothing. As soon as Charlemagne is ready, I’ll be riding out again.”

  “She was my responsibility—” Rutger began.

  “No,” Jarrett said. “She is mine.”

  He strode past them. She’d been found, he was certain. On Indian land. He could only pray that it had been by his brother or his brother’s people. He didn’t think that any of the other chiefs would hurt her—he’d been given Osceola’s promise that his land was neutral—but that didn’t mean that all the chiefs would obey Osceola.

  He didn’t take time to bathe. He ran up the stairs two at a time and went to the washbowl to douse his face and chest in cold water, and don a clean shirt and waistcoat.

  He turned to leave, but hesitated, his eyes falling upon the bed where they had shared their last night, the one that had haunted him the entire time he’d been gone. He noted that his room—masculine now for so long—was beginning to bear feminine touches. A tu
ft of lace protruded from a dresser drawer. A silver brush lay on his dresser. Even a soft scent of rose cologne seemed to linger on the air.

  His hands clenched tightly into fists at his sides, his face constricted with tension. “Damn you!” he swore aloud. He’d believed in her, he’d trusted that she meant to stay.

  And she’d tried to run. She’d married him, entwined herself somehow into his hungers, cravings … his soul. And then she’d run.

  Well, she was coming back. Damn her. She was coming back, and she’d have some kind of price to pay.

  And he would name the price.

  As long as she was facing no real danger.

  That thought brought him to instant motion, and he ran down the stairs, out of the house, and back to the stables, where a groomed and watered Charlemagne waited. Jarrett leapt atop the horse. Charlemagne pranced, as if he, too, knew just how important his coming quest would be.

  “I’ll get word to you as soon as I’ve found her,” he told Rutger and Jeeves. The two nodded anxiously. Jarrett nudged Charlemagne and raced toward the border of the Indian lands.

  He prayed to find her quickly.

  Tara didn’t know what she had been expecting, but certainly not the village they came to. Jolting along so that it seemed her teeth cracked with every movement, they came into the center of a cluster of neatly laid out and well-built, if simple, log cabins.

  Tara was so frightened by the time they arrived that she nearly fell when the Indian eased her from his shoulder to let her slide to the ground. He quickly flung his leg over the side of his horse to reach the ground himself and drag her back up. She opened her mouth to denounce him in some way, but he called out a clipped command in his own language that she knew to be a warning to keep silent. For the moment she determined to do so.

  She knew that other Indians had followed behind them on foot, and she was dimly aware that some of them were arriving. The half-breed motioned for her to move. She backed away from him, and though she kept her eyes upon him, she also tried to see the layout of the copse where they had come. There was a large fire burning in the circle around which the cabins clustered, and a deer was being tended on a stake over that fire by a number of women. Some of them were dressed in skins, and some wore skirts in European fashion. Like the men they seemed fond of jewelry, many of them adorned with a multitude of necklaces. Off toward the trees children who had been playing with a ball and some netted sticks stopped in their play and watched her arrival.

  One young woman broke away from the cooking circle, approaching the half-breed, who was menacingly advancing on Tara. She asked him a question, and he answered curtly. Her eyes widened and she stared at Tara, then began to speak again. Once more the half-breed answered her harshly, and this time, though she still seemed very angry, she fell silent. The half-breed spoke to her again, gesturing, and the young Seminole woman came toward Tara. Tara stepped away, wondering if the women might not be more barbarous than the men, as she had heard was true with some American Indian tribes.

  But when she moved away, the Indian woman shook her head impatiently. She lifted a hand to indicate the largest of the log dwellings. When Tara still hesitated, she looked to the half-breed, but he barked out another order, and this time he was obeyed. The girl came forward and took Tara’s arm with impatience. Tara resisted, trying to wrench her arm away. But then her eyes widened as she saw the half-breed atop his horse suddenly level his rifle in her direction, and she no longer resisted the young Indian woman’s attempt to take her arm. She was led into the large log cabin.

  There was just one room to the house. A fire burned to the rear of it, and though it wasn’t exactly a chimney that rose above it, there was ventilation at the roof, keeping the dwelling from filling with smoke. There was a circle of stones in the center of the floor, and to the rear and sides were various pallets that seemed to be beds made of skins and furs. There were also rolls, which Tara quickly thought were the homeowner’s belongings, neatly tied together.

  Just inside the place there was a stack of rifles, leaned one upon the other. Tara gave them a longing gaze, but then looked to the girl who had brought her in, and was stunned to realize that she couldn’t just pick up a rifle and shoot this woman. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew that the slender young Indian woman meant to offer her no harm.

  Even if the half-breed did.

  The girl lifted a hand, showing Tara one of the pallets. She indicated that Tara should sit. Tara shook her head nervously, but as she did so, the blue-eyed half-breed entered the log dwelling. He seemed to assess the situation immediately, and he strode to her, capturing her wrists and bringing her to the pallet, where he forced her to sit. Barely breathing she tried to wrench her hands away. He released her and walked away, talking again to the Indian girl in their own language. Again the girl argued. And again he snapped out an answer. The girl straightened her shoulders, snatched up something from one of the bundles, and came toward Tara, hunching down by her. She had brought a long leather thong, Tara realized. She stared at it, then at the girl, her alarm apparent in her wide eyes.

  “No, please!” Tara whispered.

  The girl dropped her voice to something lower than a whisper, speaking in English. “Give me your wrists! He will not hurt you.”

  “Please, please, talk to me—” Tara began, but the girl quickly stood, looking back over her shoulder toward the blue-eyed warrior.

  The girl spoke sharply in her own language, her narrowed eyes warning Tara to shut up.

  But if Tara was going to be massacred, she wasn’t going to submit to it easily. When the Indian girl knelt down to secure Tara’s wrists, Tara was quick to take her by surprise, shoving her to the floor and leaping up.

  But she never reached the door to the cabin. He was there, standing in the doorway. She found herself grimly dragged back into his embrace. His fingers formed a vise around her wrists as he dragged her back to the pallet, shoved her down, and quickly bound her hands together with the leather, then looped another length around that, creating a leash with it. The far end of that he tied around one of the cabin’s support beams, leaving Tara to hope that she could somehow untie it later. But his eyes were very hard on her as he tightened the knot, and she knew with a sinking heart that she would never manage to free herself.

  So what now? she wondered. She had read that some Indians saved hostages to torture to death during special celebrations.

  Maybe he just wanted her kept in one place while he sliced away her scalp.

  To Tara’s amazement he walked away from her and the beam, going to the pretty girl with the slender build and deep hazel eyes. Then, to Tara’s further surprise and Irritation, his voice became gentle, persuasive—tender—as he spoke to the Seminole maiden softly in their own language. The girl looked across the room at Tara, still disagreeing, but then she nodded her head to his will. He reached down a hand to her, and she came to him.

  Tara gradually became aware that a frown was searing the half-breed’s features, and he wasn’t paying her his entire attention. Then she became aware that there was a great deal of commotion outside. There were shouts—greetings, she thought, and the sounds of many hoof-beats.

  The half-breed spoke curtly, then spun around. He took the girl’s hand, pulling her along, and they were swiftly gone. Tara was alone.

  She waited several seconds, but no one came. She could hear voices outside and then the rise of an argument. There were curt laughs, whispers, she thought, more shouting, and then silence.

  A second later the first Indian she had encountered on the path, the one with headdress and red leggings, came and stood just inside the cabin for a moment.

  She barely dared to breathe as he stared at her. She stood up, backing toward the wall, both terrified and ready to fight again, as he neared her. He grated out a question she didn’t understand and she just stared at him, praying that her knees would not give way.

  The pretty Indian girl was back in the cabin, the blue-eyed warrior
behind her. “He wants to know if you are the wife of the White Tiger,” he asked her in guttural English.

  “The what?” Tara said, keeping her eye on the man before her. He had an arresting face, small, keen, hazel eyes, and broad, high cheekbones. His stare was level and intelligent, inquisitive—and dangerous, she thought.

  The Indian girl sighed. “Are you McKenzie’s new woman?” she also asked in English with impatience.

  “New woman …” Tara murmured. “Yes! I’m McKenzie’s wife,” she said swiftly. Her heart slammed painfully within her chest.

  What had she just done? McKenzie—her husband—was the White Tiger? They even had a name for him? It was amazing that his friends in the military hadn’t strung him up, for he surely seemed more on the side of the Indians than of his own people.

  Somehow Lisa McKenzie had died among these people. And now here she herself was too.

  The Indian leveled a finger at her and said something very sternly. Behind him the blue-eyed warrior spoke up. The red-legged one spoke to her again. She felt like a child being chastised.

  She was being chastised. The girl interpreted the scolding for her.

  “He says that you should be switched.”

  “What!” Tara gasped.

  “You have disobeyed your husband, you wander where you should not be. You put yourself into grave danger.”

  “Tell him to go to hell!” Tara said, shaking even as she spat out the words. The girl’s eyes widened.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and Tara was sure that she had no intention of relaying her words to the red-legged warrior. It didn’t matter. The warrior had understood her, and he lifted a hand, stopping the girl from speaking. He grated out another few words himself. The girl didn’t offer to translate them to Tara.

  “What …?” Tara asked, dreading the answer.

  “He says that if your husband does not switch you, he will gladly take up the task.”

  The warrior stared at her another moment, and though she was certain that he would like to take a switch—or a knife—to her, there was a slight glimmer of admiration in his eyes, and an even slighter curl to his lip. Almost as if he had teased her rather than threatened her.