The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  “Usually.”

  His mouth drew into a grim line. “I have a feeling it is not going to be so fair this time around.”

  He faced forward, urging the horses toward the rushing sound. When the slope of the river came into sight, her own lips flattened.

  Ahead, the Nowadaga overran its banks like a warrior gone mad with battle fever. The river was half again as wide as its usual spread.

  Elias halted the horses with a low “Whoa.” Behind them, Matthew did the same. Climbing down from the wagons, they all gathered on the bank—even Rufus. No one spoke. Not for a long time. Elias paced along the shore, blue eyes scanning from ripple to ripple. Mercy could only guess at his thoughts. Hers were a-tumble with danger, not for the depth of the water, but for the speed.

  Eventually, Elias pulled his hat from his head and ran his fingers through his dark hair before slapping it back atop. “Daylight is wasting. We should get a move on.”

  Mercy reached for her locket. Surely he did not mean…“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of crossing this today?”

  Elias looked down at her. “You have another back trail in mind?”

  Swallowing the shame of yesterday, she averted her gaze. “No. The next ford is twenty miles off.”

  Matthew grunted. “I’m with Mercy. Crossing now ain’t worth risking our load and our lives.”

  Rufus rolled out a string of curses—

  Until Elias’s dark glower ended the unraveling. “I’ve about had it with your vulgarities. Mind your tongue in front of a woman.”

  “She ain’t no…” Whatever cutting remark Rufus had in mind ended when Elias took a step toward him.

  “Nothing,” Rufus mumbled and held up his hands. “I ain’t saying nothin’.”

  Elias shifted his gaze to Mercy. “What do you know of this stretch of river? Any peculiarities?”

  If she closed her eyes now, how many sweet memories would swell as strong as the rushing water? The glide of Onontio’s canoe as she sat in the bow. The sting of December water on her fingers when dipping in a jar. The way autumn leaves bobbed. But that was farther up, near the headwaters, where the Kahnyen’kehàka camped.

  She shrugged. “The Nowadaga is not usually deep. The current not strong. But I can’t vouch for it while being this rain-heavy. I say we wait till it goes down some. A day. Two at most.”

  “No.” The combined voices of Elias and Rufus thundered louder than the river.

  Elias frowned at them all. “The longer we stay in one place, the higher our chances of ambush.”

  “Fair enough.” Matthew rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “And you, Rufus? Why you so breeches-afire to cross?”

  Red spread over the young man’s face like a bruise, his eyes narrowing. “Tired of yer company. Sooner we make the fort, sooner I’m done with you all.”

  Mercy held her breath. One of these times Elias or Matthew would be done with Rufus’s yapping and bite down hard.

  But Elias ignored him and instead faced Matthew. “Are you up for testing the depths with me?”

  Matthew nodded. “Aye.”

  They strode back into the tree line, hunting for a straight limb long enough to plot the best possible route through the river. Mercy yanked her bonnet back on, tired of the string tugging at her neck, tired of strong-bent men, and more than tired of this journey.

  Rufus turned aside and spit. “That man of yours is crazy.”

  She’d sigh, but Rufus Bragg wasn’t worth that much effort. “He is not my man.”

  “Yeah? I seen the way you look at him.”

  Her hands curled into fists. Whether she looked at Elias cross-eyed or doe-blinking, Rufus Bragg had no call to be watching her in the first place. “If a fight’s what you’re after, Rufus, then go get yourself a prodding stick and tussle with the river.”

  He spewed out another foul curse. “Not me. Those fools will get themselves washed downriver.”

  “Those men have more courage than you will ever know.”

  “You don’t know nothing ’bout me.” A queer gleam in his dark eyes streaked like lightning. Then he turned on his heel and stalked to the wagon.

  By now Elias and Matthew stood at the river’s edge, ten paces apart. On Elias’s mark, they stepped in, water passing over their feet. Pace by pace, they worked their way into the rushing river.

  Midway through, water swirling thigh high, Matthew stumbled.

  Mercy strangled a cry. To scream might set Elias off-balance—and he had his own step to care for. Yet even in the midst of fast-flowing water licking against his legs, he remained stalwart, exuding an unearthly kind of peace.

  Thankfully, Matthew shored himself up with his big stick, and Mercy started breathing once again.

  They waded to the far shore then back, landing dripping wet from the legs down in front of her.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Matthew eyed Elias.

  Who eyed him right back. “I say we give it a go.”

  “Could be worse, I suppose.” Matthew leaned hard on his stick. “We have a fair shot at it if the horses don’t spook.”

  “Then we will make sure they do not. If you and I walk along with the lead animal, calm and steady, there will be less of a chance for them to go rogue. Mercy and Rufus can mind the reins.”

  Biting her tongue, Mercy turned on her heel and tromped back to the wagon, following Rufus’s earlier route before she said something she’d regret.

  This was a bad idea.

  Elias hid a smile. Mercy hadn’t said a word against his and Matthew’s plan, but she didn’t have to. The braid swishing at her back and furious swirl of her skirts said it all. Did she really think her silence wasn’t shouting loud her opposition?

  Hefting his stick onto one shoulder, he hurried after her. “Mercy, hold up.”

  She did not stop until she reached the wagon, and when she turned, he was glad he’d held on to the piece of wood, so lethal did her eyes spark in the afternoon sun.

  “Just listen.” He softened his voice. Iron against iron would only make for more sparks—a fact he wished he’d learned earlier in life. “Either we stand together, or we die together. If I did not think we owned a good chance of making a safe crossing, I would not ask this of you.”

  She tucked her chin like a bull about to charge. “The power of that water is more than we can fight. I saw Matthew stumble, and he is as sturdy as one of the horses. You have no idea—”

  “Do not think to question me when it comes to the wiles of a river.” Anger surged a rush of blood to his head, his pulse beating loud in his ears. He knew better than anyone the vicious clout of water gone wild.

  Slowly at first, memories began to rise, then flash-flooded him all at once. Jacques, Henri, Arnaud…and François, his one true friend. His throat closed, and for a moment, no words would pass. All brawny men—and all lost to unforgiving currents, pulled under by greed, pride, and, in the case of his friend François, ignorance.

  He sucked in a ragged breath. “I have seen men die—friends die—from lack of respect for water. Believe me when I say I would not take such a risk if I did not think it possible. Trust me, I know whereof I speak.”

  Red flamed on her cheeks. “Why should I?”

  The question punched him in the gut. Exactly. Why should she entrust her life to a man she thought was a traitor?

  Even so, he dared a step closer. “I respect your mistrust of me, but know this…” He stared deep into her eyes, as if by virtue of will alone he could impress upon her the truth of his words. “I will not let harm come to you. I vow it.”

  She looked away, her eyes hidden in shadow, obliterating any chance he might have of reading what went on in her mind. Did she believe him—or did she think he merely said what was necessary to get her to go along with him?

  Eventually the hard line of her shoulders sagged, and she reached for her locket.

  He pressed the advantage. “All you have to do is hold steady on the reins. I will do the r
est. Mercy…please.”

  “Why?” She threw the question like a tomahawk. “Why is this so important to you?”

  He clamped his jaw. Men’s lives depended on his timely arrival in Boston—possibly the fate of an entire fort—but he couldn’t tell her that. So he said nothing. Just stared her down, admiring and hating the pluck in Mercy Lytton.

  “Pah!” She threw out her hands. “I can see there’s no moving you. Stubborn kaia’tákerahs.”

  He couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips—nor the words that followed. “I do not know what you just said, but it sure sounds pretty coming from your lips.”

  She whirled and reached for the wagon seat. Scrambling upward, she put as much space between them as possible.

  His grin widened, but it did not last long. Though that battle was over, an even bigger skirmish was about to ensue.

  Craning his neck, he searched for Matthew. The man stood next to his lead horse, with Rufus holding the reins of the other wagon.

  “Ready?” Elias shouted.

  Matthew nodded. “Aye.”

  With a last glance at Mercy, Elias strode to the front of their team and grabbed hold of the headstall on the lead horse. He held the prodding stick in his other hand, ready to encourage a skittish mount or simply to use it for balance once in the water. “Onward!”

  The first rush of water over his feet wasn’t nearly as cold this time, for his skin was already clammy up to the top of his thighs. Pace by pace, the river rose higher, from ankle, to shin, to knee. Only once did the horse buck its head, but Elias kept his grip firm, letting the animal know he’d brook no nonsense. If the leader spooked, the rest would follow suit.

  Halfway across, Elias’s foot hit a hollow. He canted to the side, the rush of water yanking him from the team. He flung out his arm to counterbalance, desperately seeking a hold for his stick. No good. The current grabbed that too, and his legs shot out from beneath him. His grip on the headstall kept him afloat, yet he was no longer leading the team. The river led him.

  And it was winning.

  “Elias!” Fear shredded Mercy’s voice.

  Sensing the dilemma, the lead horse faltered a step. If the team stopped now, the river would gain the upper hand…and once those crates hit the water and broke open, there’d be no gaining back the weapon he’d taken such pains to transport this far.

  There was nothing to be done for it then. God, please give Mercy strength.

  “Keep going!” he yelled at her.

  Then he let go.

  The current dragged him along. With strong strokes, he fought against the pull, straining to swing his feet around. Careening headfirst down an unknown stretch of swollen river was never a good idea. His lungs burned with the effort. Gritty water slapped him in the face, filling his mouth and nose. He worked his way toward the shore, scraping and banging against rocks.

  At last, the flow lessened, and his feet purchased a solid base. He shot up, some twenty yards downriver of the wagons, coughing and spluttering.

  And when he caught his breath, he let out a big whoop.

  Mercy, God bless her, laid into the horses and drove them right up the side of the bank. The rear wheels cleared the river, hauling up the load of crates to safety.

  “Thank You, Lord,” he breathed as he waded toward shore.

  Matthew’s wagon was at the halfway point now—but thankfully the man must’ve seen where he’d taken his fall, for the ranger led his team a hair more upriver. Smart man. Rufus’s thin arms jutted out in front of him, reins wrapped tight in his hands.

  Elias stopped in shin-deep water, watching the progression. To distract any of them now could mean the loss of the second wagon.

  Little by little, Matthew advanced. His moccasins hit the bank. The first pair of horses cleared the water. The second pair. Elias held his breath. So close.

  The first set of wheels rolled out of the river, slanting the wagon so that all the weight rested on the back two wheels.

  And a crack split the air.

  Mercy eased back on the reins, bringing the horses to a slow stop. They deserved a rest. So did she. Every muscle in her arms jittered from the harrowing crossing.

  Dropping her hands to her lap, she leaned back against the canvas and closed her eyes, just as she’d done before they had crossed the Nowadaga. The sun beat warmer, the air smelled sweeter. Life seemed less burdensome. Why was it that her gratitude heightened only after a vexing experience? How much peace did she miss out on by appreciating a rainbow instead of valuing the rain beforehand? Should she not thank God for both?

  The questions chafed. She’d not thought this much about God in a long time, not since she’d left behind her childhood. And Mother. Mercy flexed her fingers, working out the last of her tension and fighting the urge to reach for her locket. Elias was far too much like her mother in his spirituality—yet there was nothing soft about him. Nothing cowardly. Maybe—just maybe—faith did not have to mean weakness.

  A scream of horses ended her contemplations, followed by men’s shouts. She set the brake and bolted from the wagon.

  Dread pumped her legs as she tore back the way she’d come. Some kind of argument waged between Rufus and Elias, accompanied by the drone of Matthew, speaking calmly to squealing horses.

  Her steps slowed as she descended the slope of the riverbank into chaos. Matthew held tight to the lead horse’s headstall. The others snorted and strained at their harnesses, trying to break free. And she didn’t blame them. Behind lay a cockeyed wagon, rear barely dragged out of the water and digging hard into the soft ground. Rufus had bailed from his seat and stood on the mucky bank, cussing at a half-drowned Elias.

  She stopped, gaze fixed on the dislocated spokes—sticking out of the wheel weakened when they had taken Traverse Ridge. The peace of moments before vanished, replaced by a sickening twist in her belly.

  This was her fault.

  “Mercy!” Elias’s voice shook through her, and she yanked up her head.

  He stood soaked to the skin beside Rufus near the rear of the wagon. “Grab the horses. We need Matthew to help haul these crates from the river.”

  Without a word, she walked in a daze over to Matthew, the image of the spokes askew and the curve of defeat in Elias’s shoulders strong in her mind.

  All Matthew’s shushings and “Easy now” murmurings had stilled most of the madness in the horses. Either that or the animals had figured out they no longer lugged a scrape-bottom, off-kilter wagon up a hill. But whichever, Matthew didn’t let go until she wrapped her fingers around the leather band on the lead horse’s head.

  She peered into Matthew’s gray eyes. “Are you all right? No one’s hurt, are they?”

  He shook his head. “No, girl. Thank the good Lord. Keep a firm grip—on this horse and yourself. They take off running, you let go, you hear?”

  Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she nodded. If she’d never suggested that ridge shortcut, if she’d just kept her mouth shut, they wouldn’t be in this sorry situation.

  Most of the crates had been strewn along the bank when the horses charged off in a frenzy. One crate remained on the wagon bed. Only three of the ten had landed in the water, so it didn’t take long for the men to lug them up to the muddy shore. Pots and pans, gold bars, and some opened packets of trade silver sparkled in the shallows, contents they would need to collect before nightfall. The rest of the flotsam was likely already a mile downstream, pulled by the current.

  Stroking the velvety nose of the horse to soothe the beast and herself, she waited until the men caught their breath. “Now what?”

  Matthew pulled off his hat and flicked the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “We’ll have to unload the other wagon and bring it back down to collect as much of this mess as we can.”

  Elias nodded. “After we unload that, we will come back for the broken wagon.”

  Turning aside, Rufus spit on the ground, then jabbed his finger her way. “This is your doin�
��. We get a passel of Indians breathin’ down our neck, you remember that.”

  In two strides, Elias planted himself between Rufus and her. “Leave off. This is your only warning.”

  But it was too late. Rufus’s accusation heaped another coal onto the fire of her own guilt, the shame of which would burn for a very long time.

  Matthew jammed his hat back atop his head. “You’re doing a fine job with the horses, Mercy, so just stay here. We’ll be back with an empty wagon to collect the rest.”

  The men stomped off, but Rufus’s indictment stayed. He was right. If Onontio’s warning held true and a band of Wyandot came along, they would be easy to find and too small in number to fight back. But what was to be done for it now? How could she possibly make the situation better?

  Slowly, she released her hold of the bridle, cooing all the while. She inched from the horse, testing the skittishness of the leader, but by now they had all discovered the green shoots breaking up the ground in patches. The pull and chomp of well-earned provender played an accompaniment to the steady rhythm of the rushing water.

  From this angle, she viewed more clearly the devastation where the land sloped into the river. Contents from the crates littered a wide swath of mud—and what contents they were! She’d already seen the household goods that had been stored in the top half of each crate, but she’d not imagined so much gold, so many packages of trade silver. She couldn’t begin to guess at the value. No wonder Elias and Matthew were so bent on getting this load to Fort Edward. If anyone discovered them with this much treasure, their throats would be slit before they could holler.

  A shiver shimmied across her shoulders, and she forced her gaze to move on. Nearby, a fallen wooden box wasn’t too damaged, though it was mostly empty. If she dragged it down to the water’s edge, she could at least begin collecting what had spilled.

  Treading on light feet so as not to scare the horses, she picked her way down the bank. Near the toe of her moccasin, a gold bar lay half-embedded in the muck. She bent to retrieve it—and was surprised at the weight. It took two hands to pry it out and heave it into the crate. The linen-wrapped packages of trade silver weren’t any lighter or easier to free from the suction of wet earth. Eventually though, she rinsed each item off and filled the box. Now to drag it up a ways.