The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  She jutted her chin, eyes dark and unreadable beneath the brim of her hat. “I did not say it would be easy.”

  And it wasn’t. Turning at such a sharp angle from a trail not much wider than the wagons was a miracle. Coaxing the horses to pull at an even speed so as not to foul the wheels with grabber-vine was another. But it wasn’t until the trail took off up a steep incline that the truth of her words sank in like claws.

  She was right. There was nothing easy about this.

  Sweat beaded on his brow as he yelled, “Hyah!” then whistled through his teeth, calling upon every trick he knew to keep the horses plodding upward. If they stopped now, the weight of the cargo could yank them backward—right into Matthew’s oncoming wagon. Picking rock would’ve been less work than this. To her credit, Mercy remained silent, leaning forward as if to will the horses onward.

  By the time the trail leveled, sweat ran as freely as the rain on his skin from the toil of it. Once he cleared enough space for Matthew’s wagon to rest behind, he stopped to breathe.

  Reaching back, he massaged a cramp in his shoulder, knotted into a rock-hard bulge from the strain. “Well, that was some ride.”

  “Yet you managed it.”

  “Aye. Barely.” He lowered his fingers, a half smile curving his lips. “Next time remind me to ask if there are any mountains involved.”

  “Oh, well…” White teeth nibbled her bottom lip, far too beguiling for a bone-weary moment such as this. She lifted one hand and pulled out a locket from beneath her bodice, then clutched it like some kind of amulet. He’d seen her do it several times throughout their journey. Clearly the thing gave her some kind of assurance…but for what?

  “That wasn’t the hard part,” she mumbled.

  His smile faded. “What do you mean?”

  “This ridgeline runs about a half mile beyond that next bend.”

  He blew out a sigh. “And I suppose the decline will be just as treacherous.”

  “Not so much.” Her coil of hair unraveled lopsided beneath her hat, and she tugged the long braid free of the felt, shifting it to trail down her back. “The slope is gentler going down, and it empties onto the trail we were on, bypassing that rockslide.”

  He scratched his jaw, his fingers rasping against a week’s worth of stubble. Trying to track the logic of Mercy’s words was sometimes as twisted as the trails they journeyed. “Then what is so hard about it?”

  Footsteps tromped from behind, and Matthew’s grizzled face appeared on Mercy’s side of the wagon. He glowered up at her. “Blazing fires, girl! Don’t tell me you just led us up to Traverse Ridge.”

  She stared straight ahead, as if the man were nothing more than a passing shadow. “We’d hardly be through a quarter of that rock pile if we’d stayed, and you know it.”

  “Traverse Ridge?” Elias repeated, hoping the voicing of it would shake loose some memory connected with the name.

  A growl percolated in Matthew’s chest. “Nothing to be done for it now. We sure as spit can’t go back the way we came.” His gray eyes burned into Elias’s. “Take it slow, but keep moving, no matter what. Just keep moving.”

  He strode away before Elias could query him further. Mercy refused to meet his questioning gaze.

  He gathered the reins and edged the horses forward. The trail was wide enough for the wagon before it dropped off to a maze of tree spires below. Surely Matthew did not think this was dangerous after what they had already ascended? Perhaps age had made him overcautious. Lord knew the older Grandfather got, the more he’d placed restrictions on him as a young boy. It seemed elders were ever skittish about taking risks.

  But then the path curved, following the bend of the rise, and he sucked in a breath.

  Ahead, the road continued straight and narrow, but at such an angle that all the weight of two tons of gold would be laid into the outer-edge wheels. If the load shifted or one of the spokes cracked from the pressure, there’d be no stopping a tumble down the steep drop of rock and trees. He scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d have to keep them in one piece for a whole half mile? A groan rumbled deep in his throat, mimicking Matthew’s. No wonder the man had been so chary.

  Holding a taut rein, Elias restrained the horses to a sluggish yet steady pace. Too fast and those wheels would snap like kindling. Mercy grabbed the side of the wagon to keep from falling out. At least the rain had let up some. A gift, that, but it did not make the wet ground any less slippery. If he lost this load now, more than just their lives would be at stake.

  God, please.

  Foot by foot, the wagon creaked along, so cattywampus that he and Mercy leaned hard to the left. The horses balked at the grade and weight of the wagon tongue pressing against their collars, but Elias held strong, never letting up on the steely tension of the reins.

  Rocks plummeted, knocked loose from their passage. With the ground so saturated, no wonder that slide had let loose. The crash of granite chunks jarred like thunder as they collided with tree trunks, then rumbled off. An eerie sound. Like the breaking of bones—their bones if he gave in to his shaking forearms.

  At last the road flattened. As much as he wanted to jump down and see how Matthew fared, there was no time, for the descent began as soon as the rear wheel evened out.

  As Mercy claimed, the decline wasn’t as extreme, but it made for perilous going nonetheless. By the time they finally met with the original road, his ribs ached from strained breathing.

  Pulling far enough ahead for Matthew’s wagon to clear the flattened trail, he halted the horses. Heart racing, he sank back against the canvas and closed his eyes, every muscle jittery.

  “Well done.” Mercy’s words were quiet.

  An offering, he supposed.

  He glanced at her—and couldn’t help but smile. Any other woman would be pale-faced and wide-eyed after that trek. Mercy’s cheeks glowed pink, her brown gaze bright, as if her existence hadn’t just depended on the strip of leather in his hands that he’d gripped for dear life.

  “You just might be the death of me, Mercy Lytton.”

  He swung down to solid ground before she could reply and stalked over to her side of the wagon. Bending, he studied one wheel, shaking it to see how the spokes fared, then did the same with the others, praying the whole while he’d not see a problem.

  But God was good. The spokes held true.

  He strode to where Matthew squatted near his own back wheel, Rufus at his side, swearing down brimstone and damnation on them all for putting him through such a dangerous ride.

  Matthew looked up at Elias’s approach, his face as dark as the thickening black sky. “This wagon’s not as stout as yours. One more trail like that, and these spokes will give way.”

  Mercy rolled one way, then the other, seeking comfort where none would be found—certainly not on a bunched-up blanket laid on damp dirt. With a huff, she flipped onto her back, lying flat and staring up at the darkened cave ceiling. Finding this cavern had been a boon in the downpour, and she was thankful. Still…she flipped to her stomach. Guilt stole all the peace out of that gratitude.

  Though neither Matthew nor Elias had disparaged her for their perilous trek along Traverse Ridge, Rufus had—when out of earshot of the other men. But he needn’t have wasted his breath. Ever since she’d learned of Matthew’s weakened wheel, she’d been flaying herself mentally. Sleep wouldn’t come to call when such an intrusive visitor occupied her mind.

  With a huff, she scooted over to what remained of the fire. On the side nearest the cave opening, Matthew stretched out on the ground, hat over his face and chest rising at an even pace. Rufus was gone—out on watch. On the other side, Elias sat cross-legged, the smoldering mound of embers casting a glow on his face. He looked like a god forged from the flames. Only his eyes acknowledged her approach.

  She sat opposite him, pulling her shawl tighter at her neck. Not much warmth radiated from the dying fire, so she grabbed a stick and poked it, coaxing a few licks of red to life. All the while the m
an’s gaze asked questions she did not want to answer—so she avoided looking up.

  “Can’t sleep,” she explained quietly.

  “There is no rain.”

  She quirked her head, listening. The shushing drone outside had ceased, replaced by stray drips looking for a home.

  Elias’s lips curved. “There is no pattering to lull you to sleep.”

  Would that were the only reason. A sigh emptied the air from her lungs, and she went back to poking at the fire. “No, ’tisn’t that. I want to apologize for taking us up that ridge today. I did not consider the weight of the cargo. I could have gotten us killed.”

  “Well.” His soft voice curled around her like smoke. “No real harm done. And we did make good time, better than if we had moved those rocks. That would have set us back a whole day.”

  A more than gracious response—but suspect. Ought not a criminal facing years in jail drag his heels instead of running into such a destiny?

  Lifting her face, she studied the man. He sat so calmly still one would think him at peace with the universe. But how could that be, when he yet faced charges of sedition? And why had such an outwardly peaceful man decided to take up treachery to begin with? Was he a traitor of convenience, or did he do it for mere capital gain? Or perhaps his principles ran deeper and he was somehow proud to serve time for an action of conviction?

  So many questions swirled in her head that she couldn’t stop at least one of them from leaking out. “Why are you so bent on reaching the fort? You will be locked up, likely for years on end. There’s no guarantee you will survive it.”

  Elias’s blue eyes glimmered with some kind of knowledge, something she couldn’t understand. He knew things of darkness and beyond, of blood and honor—which made her all the more curious.

  She threw aside her poking stick. “Why did you trade loyalties in the middle of a fight? What made you turn?”

  A muscle jumped in his neck, and he lowered his chin, hiding his face in the shadow of his hat. He was silent for so long, the drippings outside faded away.

  She folded into her shawl, prepared to wait him out. She’d sat in more rugged conditions than this while holing up on a scouting mission.

  Eventually, his low voice purled soft. “You are inquisitive tonight.”

  Obstinate man. Her lips pursed into a pout. If he thought to make her stray from her line of questioning, he’d be sorely disappointed. “And you’re full of silence—a technique better used on army interrogators, not me. I have nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but wait for you to answer.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are a stubborn woman?” His tone changed, dark and cold as the cave. He leaned close to the fire, light riding the strong planes of his face.

  She tensed at the formidable sight, both attracted and repelled, yet met him stare for stare. “Aye. I believe you have mentioned it a time or two.”

  He snorted. “What is it you really want to know, Mercy Lytton?” His query dangled like a rope from a gibbet. “Think carefully, for I shall only answer one question tonight.”

  “Why did you defend me against Rufus earlier today?” The words barreled out before she could stop them, and she bit her lip. Where on earth had that come from?

  “Of all the…?” Rearing back, he shook his head. Astonishment smoothed out the road-weariness from his face, making him appear as a wonder-eyed boy. “You never stop surprising me.”

  She squirmed, warmth spreading up her neck and onto her cheeks like a rash.

  But just as suddenly, his jaw tightened and a storm cloud gathered on his face. “Men like Rufus are too ignorant to see who you really are.”

  She swallowed, afraid to speak, afraid not to. “Who do you think I am?”

  “A beautiful creation of God.”

  His words were pleasing to the ear, but it was the reverent way he stared at her that became embedded deep in her heart. He meant what he said, but more than that, he knew what he said was as true as if God had come down and spoken to him alone. A staggering thought, one that stole her breath.

  “You really know Him, don’t you?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “I do—and you can too.”

  She stiffened, the turn of conversation feeling like stays yanked too tight. This was too intimate to even think of, let alone talk about with a man. “I think I shall retire now.”

  His teeth flashed a knowing grin. “See you come morning then.”

  She scooted back to her corner of the cave, more painfully awake now than when she’d first left it. Flinging herself down to her blanket, she faced away from Elias Dubois.

  How could she both love and hate the way someone made her feel?

  Elias watched Mercy edge away from the fire, her pale skirts light against the darkness of the cave. She was a ghost in the darkness, one who would surely haunt his thoughts for the rest of the night.

  He stared into the embers long after she disappeared, listening to the rhythm of Matthew’s breathing and the rising chorus of insects outside. Ah, but the woman was spirited, an even match to his own willfulness. A slow smile lifted his lips. And if he were right, if she truly were like him, she had no idea of the fire about to blaze down and refine her.

  He glanced up at the jagged ceiling. “So…You are working on her, eh, God? She could use it.” Huffing out a breath, he bowed his head. “And so could I. Lord, make us both pleasing in Your sight.”

  The tromp of Rufus’s feet drew near outside and pulled him from his prayer. He met the young man just outside the cave opening on a slick of gravel and mud.

  Rufus eyed him as he might a wolf that could spring. Good. The young upstart needed his anger tethered to a taut rein—and Elias was more than happy to be the one to hold it. Scrubbing a hand along his jaw, he masked a grin. Rufus Bragg reminded him entirely too much of himself at that age. Would to God someone had kept him in line—not that Grandfather hadn’t tried.

  He tipped his head at the young man. “No sign of anything?”

  Rufus stopped just out of reach and widened his stance, likely a show of power—but it did not work. The young man’s knobby-framed body would break like a November twig were Elias to charge him.

  A sneer curled Rufus’s upper lip. “Nothing to worry your pretty head over.”

  The mockery hung in the damp air, and Elias left it right there, hovering. “Listen, Rufus, this is going to be a long journey if we do not work together.”

  Faster than he thought possible, Rufus swung up the muzzle of his Brown Bess, aiming square at him. From this range, a hole through the chest would kill him on the spot.

  “Yer right.” Rufus cocked open the hammer, the click of metal loud in the woods. “I could just shoot you now to save us both the trouble.”

  “You could.” He eyed the barrel, noting the steady hold. The boy knew how to handle a weapon, he’d give him that. “But who is going to drive that wagon? Mercy or you? The way I see it, neither of you could manage such a haul, not on your own.”

  With a flick of his chin, Rufus spit to the side. “You think you got all the answers, don’t ya, Frenchie boy? What do you care if we manage to reach the fort or not?”

  “I care not whatsoever.” And he didn’t. Mercy and the boy were right to question him, for he had no intention of letting that gold reach Fort Edward—leastwise not one crate in particular.

  But what would the boy make of his answer? He stared into Rufus’s eyes, surveying his reaction. By the spare light of a sky now sprinkled with stars, it was still too dark to read with any accuracy what went on inside Rufus’s head. Clearly the boy didn’t see an unarmed man as a threat.

  Elias threw back his shoulders, calling the boy’s bluff. “Go on then, pull the trigger. You will be doing me a favor.”

  Once the challenge passed his lips, Elias sharpened his whole body into stillness, for his life teetered on the thin line of Rufus’s integrity—if the boy had any. It would be a shameful way to go, breathing his last from the shot of an an
gst-filled boy-man. But at least he knew where he’d go, for he’d made his peace with God nigh on two years back. If only he could have settled things with Grandfather, a regret he’d take with him to the grave.

  The boy stood fixed—the kind of rock-hard bearing only a seasoned killer would dare. Apparently Rufus had taken life before. Many, judging by his deadpan gaze.

  Sweat beaded on Elias’s brow. For the first time the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he had risked too much.

  Metal clicked. The gun lowered. Elias let out a breath.

  “You ain’t worth my lead,” Rufus hissed through his teeth, then turned and strode into the cave.

  Once the boy was out of sight, Elias’s shoulders sagged. His life had been spared. Again. Clearly it was God’s will his delivery made it to Boston.

  Nonetheless, it would be difficult with Rufus begging for a fight every blessed minute. A sigh deflated him, and he glanced at the sky. How am I to do this, Lord, without bloodshed?

  Bumping along in the wagon, Mercy lifted her face to the sun, strangely content after a night filled with dreams of a questioning blue-eyed man and a God who spoke to him face-to-face. She pulled off her hat and closed her eyes, soaking in the spring warmth. Tree silhouettes splotched black against the orange background, and she breathed in the freshness of the damp woods. By her reckoning, this was the finest first day of April since the year she’d surprised Black-Fox-Running with a basket full of wild garlic shoots. He’d praised her industry—but Mother had frowned. Her locket burned hot against her breast.

  Mercy’s eyes shot open. Better to face the present than live in a world of past hurts.

  She gave in to the soothing sound of the wheels and the caress of a mild breeze, until loose hair tickled across her cheek. Working stray strands back into a braid that never stayed tight, she angled her head and listened. Something else pickabacked on that breeze. A shushing.

  She peeked at Elias, only to find his gaze already studying her.

  Despite the sunshine, his face darkened. “Did you not say the Nowadaga crossing was fair passable?”