Should he trust the boy around Mrs. Clark and the baby? If Samuel allowed a danger into their camp and either of them came to harm, he’d never forgive himself.
Still, maybe she knew this boy. If they were from the same band, there was a good chance she did. And if not, he’d like to know her thoughts on what to do with him.
He motioned with his rifle. “It’s time we catch up with my group. Start walking.”
The boy eyed him a final time, then obeyed. Turning toward the path Mrs. Clark had taken, he marched forward. Thank you, Lord.
Samuel followed a few strides behind him, his gun still aimed at the lad. He wasn’t sure he could shoot the boy even if he ran, but hopefully keeping the rifle aimed would dissuade him from attempting anything ill-advised.
As they trekked toward the distant rise, it soon became clear Matisse was much better at hiking through the wilderness than Samuel was. He tried to keep his breathing steady so he didn’t give away the effort their clip took to maintain. Matisse didn’t seem winded at all, just settled into his lanky stride.
At last they crested the knoll Mrs. Clark had ridden over, and Samuel eased out a breath of relief. There she sat, still astride her mare with the other horses tethered behind her. The sling with Cherry inside was draped across her front as usual.
Her gaze met his first, and something like relief eased her features. Then her focus shifted to the lad, eyes narrowing, as though she wasn’t quite sure what she was seeing.
He knew the feeling.
When they were a half dozen strides away, he barked, “That’s far enough.”
Matisse stopped. Samuel couldn’t see his expression, since he was behind the boy, but he could tell he was eyeing Mrs. Clark.
And she him, except a softness had taken over her features. A gentleness, almost motherly. Her gaze lifted to Samuel in question.
He motioned toward the lad. “This is Matisse. He says he’s not following us, only going the same direction we are. To his people. That’s all he’s said so far.”
She shifted her focus back to the boy and spoke, yet the words flowed in a language he couldn’t understand. Peigan?
Samuel eased around so he could see the boy’s face. Confusion. And maybe a little disappointment.
Then the lad raised his chin and spoke in English. “I am Peigan, but I don’t know the tongue. I was raised by a white man, a trapper who is no longer of this world. I now go back to those who gave me life.”
“Whose people are you from? Who is the leader?” Mrs. Clark seemed to be attempting to keep her emotions from showing on her face, but her eyes sparkled with a hint of the excitement she must surely be feeling. This boy could be kin to her.
Matisse’s face took on a bit of uncertainty. “I’m not certain. Pierre found me by a hot spring, about a half days’ ride in to the mountains. It was winter, and he said the Indians had already left the area. He took me to his cabin but never found the people I came from.”
A line formed across her forehead. “How old were you? Is Matisse your Indian name or did Pierre give it to you?”
“He thinks I was two when he found me, and he named me.”
The lad was certainly answering her questions better than he had Samuel’s. But he couldn’t blame the boy. With her pretty eyes seeking him out, she would be impossible to resist.
And it probably helped that she wasn’t pointing a gun at him.
There was one thing that still bothered Samuel, though. He’d feel better if he asked it now instead of after the boy joined their group, as he suspected would be the case. “How is it you found us? And how did you know we’re going to a Piegan camp?”
The lad swiveled to face him, his expression turning more guarded. But he still answered. “I saw men on the trail. Heard them talk about meeting a man and woman going into the mountains to find her Indian people. I thought following you would be my best chance.”
So, he had been following. But Samuel wouldn’t call him on the lie he’d told earlier. This boy was simply desperate and finding his way the best he could. He probably didn’t know who to trust. “How old are you, son?” He shifted around to get a better view of the boy’s responses.
Matisse raised his chin. “Fifteen. I think.”
Samuel nodded. A year or so older than he’d have guessed, but still too young to be on his own in this wilderness. Especially with winter coming on.
He turned to Mrs. Clark, studying her face for any sign of lingering fear toward the lad. Inviting him into their camp would require a measure of trust.
She returned Samuel’s gaze, eyes glistening. Then she gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement. Good.
He looked at Matisse. “If you’d like to join in with us, you can. We’re going to Mrs. Clark’s people, a Peigan camp about a day’s ride into the mountains. We’d expect you to help with what needs done, and you’re welcome to share our food.”
The boy’s gaze turned wary, and he gazed from Samuel to Mrs. Clark. His eyes looked to be almost asking her for permission.
She nodded. “We’d like you to join us. It would help us all.” Based on her tone, she seemed to be trying to maintain her distance, but it wasn’t hard to feel her warmth.
Matisse turned back to Samuel with a nod. “I will do my part.”
“All right then.” He let out a breath as he turned his focus to what should be done next. They needed to get on the trail, but the boy certainly couldn’t walk. He looked to Mrs. Clark. “I think we could move the packs around to let him ride the other mare.”
She nodded. “I can carry more behind my saddle.”
Within a few minutes Samuel had the gear shifted to allow Matisse to ride. Samuel hesitated a long moment over the rifle slung behind the boy’s back. It seemed like a bad idea to take the weapon away, an act that would only build distrust and bitterness in the lad. They just had a couple of days to travel, but the coming terrain would require them to work together, each looking out for the good of the group.
So he didn’t speak of the gun, just held the horse while the boy mounted. “You’ve ridden before?”
Matisse nodded and took up the reins. He seemed to know what he was doing, although he was a bit stiff in the saddle. He would grow more comfortable in time.
Samuel turned back to untether his gelding from Mrs. Clark’s mare but paused at her side, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the midday sun as he studied her. “How’s Little Bit doing?” He tapped one end of the bundle of furs. They were tucked so tightly, from this angle, he couldn’t tell where the babe was among the pelts. “Is she staying warm enough?”
Mrs. Clark looked down. “I think so. She’s sleeping now.” Then she raised her gaze to his, and the power of her beautiful eyes speared all the way to his core. It took everything in him not to reach up and touch her. Not to take her hand.
Did she think of him as more than someone to help on the journey? He wanted to be a help to her, but with each passing hour, he wanted to be more.
Yet she was mourning her dead husband. His thoughts were way out of line.
Forcing himself to step away, he turned toward his gelding. His only focus should be to get this woman and her baby to her family safely. And he should add getting Matisse there, as well.
He mounted his horse and squared his shoulders. Time to accomplish the mission God had assigned him and stop wishing for what would never happen.
Chapter Eleven
“God, this I’m not prepared for. Show me what to do.”
~ Samuel
MORIAH COULDN’T HELP but find it amusing to watch Samuel with Matisse that evening. He studied the boy’s every movement like a hawk scrutinizing prey.
If there was one thing she’d learned about Samuel Grant, it was his kindness, so she wasn’t worried overmuch about the boy. Once he proved trustworthy, Samuel would ease his watchfulness.
In truth, she should probably be more concerned about having a stranger travel with them. But something about this boy rang
true in her spirit. It wasn’t just his youthfulness—she’d seen plenty of young men whom she wouldn’t trust farther than the end of her arm. But the earnestness in his eyes—and something in his manner—eased her guard aside.
Samuel, on the other hand, seemed to take more convincing. Seeing his protectiveness wrapped a warm feeling around her like thick fur to block out the buffeting wind. Throughout the evening, he never left her sight unless Matisse was with him.
And with two pairs of hands to help with the camp, she didn’t feel as pressured to carry an equal part of the load. Not that she’d managed anywhere near that much yet, with all the tending Cherry required.
Night hung around them as the little group sat by the campfire, eating from a pot of beans. The warm food helped offset the frigid air blowing off the mountains. She’d not had a chance to talk with Matisse, as Samuel had kept him working, gathering wood for the fire and branches for her shelter.
Now, she focused her attention on the lad. “Tell me what you know of your people. You said you were two when the trapper found you? Was there anything on your clothing that told him of your tribe?”
The boy gulped down another bite. “The only band he knew of in the area where he found me were Peigan, but when he took me to the place they’d been camped, the whole group was gone.”
She leaned forward. “Where were they camped? Do you know how to find the place?”
He nodded as he swallowed another bite. “I think so. It might be near where you’re headed now. Pierre and I passed by there a few years back on our way through the mountains. If I could find those hot springs, I think I could find the valley where he said they were camped.”
Good. There might be a real chance this boy had been a member of her band. Her memory was hazy from fifteen years ago, but she could remember more than one family mourning the loss of a child stolen by raiding war parties. It was possible this boy had been separated from his captors and left to die in the mountains.
She refocused on the lad. “Tell us of your life with Pierre. Where did you live?”
He had to swallow again before he could speak. She should probably leave him to eat in silence since he was shoveling food in his mouth as though he’d not had a meal in days. But he was already starting in on his answer. “We wandered the rivers mostly. Trapping. Usually we’d make a regular path through the mountains and back. That trip would take about two years. Sometimes we’d go farther north, and once or twice we went south, but the trapping’s not as plentiful down there.”
“Did you have a home at all?” Hadn’t he mentioned a cabin earlier?
He shrugged. “A little place we’d stop in from time to time. Didn’t leave our valuables there since others used it too.”
A true vagrant then. Not a life she’d want to live.
The boy scraped the bottom of his tin as if he was determined to scoop up every bit of juice from the beans.
She reached for his plate. “Let me refill that. There’s plenty here.”
His gaze lifted to her face and lingered for a moment before he handed over the dish. “Thank you.”
As she scooped more food, she slid a glance at Samuel. He’d offered to hold Cherry while she ate—almost insisted on taking the babe. In truth, she hadn’t resisted much. Having a few moments with her hands free felt wonderful, even if that thought came with a nudge of guilt.
Watching him now, sitting cross-legged with the bundled baby tucked against him, sent a warmth through her that made her eyes sting. Such a large, strapping man, yet he looked so natural with the little one. And he seemed to harbor genuine affection for her daughter.
He was almost too wonderful to be real. The man could help bear not only the weight of their safety and the work involved in the journey, but with Samuel around, she no longer had to carry the full responsibility for her daughter’s every need. For her very survival.
He looked up at her then, meeting her gaze across the fire. His eyes held their usual dark earnestness, but there was something else there too. A surety. A softness.
The look was almost her undoing. She blinked and dropped her gaze to the plate of beans. “Here you go.” She handed it to Matisse without looking up.
She couldn’t let herself weaken like this. She may have been fathered by a black-hearted French lowlife, but she was the granddaughter of War Eagle. She wouldn’t fall apart.
Not for any reason.
“WHAT’S WRONG?” SAMUEL’S pulse darted through his chest as he reined his gelding even with Mrs. Clark’s mare. Her face had paled to a weak gray since he last looked at her. “What happened?” Had she seen something?
His gaze shot to Matisse, who’d been riding ahead and now looked back at them in question. The lad hadn’t done anything to frighten her, Samuel was almost certain. He’d been watching the boy’s every movement.
Samuel turned back to the woman, and the sight of her tightened the knot forming in his gut. Her lips were a brighter red than normal. “Are you ill?”
She looked at him, and her eyes didn’t hold their normal intensity. Their weakness now sent a fresh bolt of fear through him.
Then she opened those crimson lips. “I’m well.”
But she wasn’t. She looked to be swaying in the saddle.
“Let me hold Cherry, at least.” He leaned closer to rein in her horse as he did the same with his. “I should have offered this long before. It can’t be easy to have her weight on you all day.”
Thankfully, the horses stood still as he helped remove the sling and baby from Mrs. Clark. She winced as they worked the contraption off of her.
“You’re hurt. What happened?” He took the baby in both hands, careful to support her little head. She was bundled so tightly, the blankets did all the work to hold her straight.
Mrs. Clark shook her head. “I’m not hurt. My shoulder only aches from the sling.” She raised a hand to her left shoulder.
He should have taken the babe days before. Turning his focus to the sleeping little one, he fit the strap over his own shoulder. Once he was sure Cherry should be comfortable, he turned back to her mother.
She almost slumped in the saddle, a posture he’d never seen from her normally regal form. Her left hand rested in front of her, her right holding it in place as though the limb might fall away.
“Are you sure you’re not ill?”
“I’m well.” Her words held a prick of frustration.
He heaved out a breath. “Another hour or so and we can rest for the midday meal. Just call out if you want to stop before then.”
She didn’t respond, but her red lips had tightened into a thick line. Was she angry with him? Or trying to hold in whatever was wrong with her?
Either way, he’d be keeping a close eye on her. Something wasn’t right.
MORIAH COULD BARELY hold herself upright as her body shifted with the rhythm of the horse. The pain in her left breast was more excruciating than anything she’d ever felt, except maybe childbirth itself. What was happening to her?
The agony made it almost impossible to move her left arm or touch any part of that area. And now chills had taken over the rest of her body, along with an ache that seared all the way to the core of her bones.
She couldn’t seem to stop shaking. If Samuel looked back again, he’d see it and make them stop. And maybe she did want to rest. She might not last much longer without losing consciousness.
Clutching the saddle tighter, she fought against a new wave of shivers. Her teeth chattered, and she tried to pull the fur tighter around her. The movement sent a fresh stab of pain through the tender flesh already screaming in agony.
“What’s wrong?” The urgency in Samuel’s voice nearly broke through the wall of tears she’d been holding back.
He was beside her a second later, his hand touching her good arm. “Look how ill you are.” Then louder, his voice turned away, “Matisse, ride just ahead and find a place we can make camp. Somewhere sheltered from the wind.”
Now his voice
came back to her, deep and near. “Can you ride a minute longer ’til we find a better place to stop? This hillside is so open.” She wanted to lean into his warmth, the strength of him, but she’d only fall off the horse.
Instead, she nodded, pressing her eyes closed as another shiver wracked her aching body.
“Mrs. Clark, I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
His voice was the only warmth she could find, and she clung to it, even if only inside her mind. But she hated the way her surname stood as a barrier between them. “Moriah,” she mumbled through trembling lips. “C-call me M-Moriah.”
His hand slid along her arm, rubbing gently. “We’ll stop in a minute, Moriah. Hold on a little longer, then we’ll get you warm.”
It seemed like half an hour before they reined to a halt, but surely it hadn’t really been that long. She could hear the men’s voices humming beside her as she sat atop her horse. Samuel and Matisse talking, but she didn’t have the energy to push through the fog in her mind to understand them.
“All right, Moriah. Let’s get you down, then tuck you into more furs so you can warm up.” Samuel’s strong hand reached up to grip her arm. But when he gave a gentle pull, the shifting in her muscles seared through her tender flesh at her side like a scalding blade.
She couldn’t hold back the gasp, and she gripped her shoulder to keep her body from exploding.
“Is your arm injured? Where does it hurt?” Samuel’s voice still held tenderness but now carried urgency, and maybe some fear.
“My shoulder.” She gritted her teeth. “I can get down.” Better she do this by herself to keep from jostling that side of her body.
He let her work at it, only settling his hands at her waist to help her slide from the horse. Then he led her with a hand at her good elbow. “Your pallet is right over here. We’ll get a fire going soon.”
“The baby?” She could only stand to focus on the ground right in front of her. The pain consumed everything else. But she had to know Cherry was being taken care of.
“She’s snuggled in her blankets right now, still sleeping. I’ll keep her with me as soon as I have you settled.”
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