The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  Beyond them, orange coals yet glowed. She might as well make the most of them. There’d been no sign of any Wyandots, and if any were about, they would have attacked by now. A pot of stew would lighten everyone’s mood, especially since they had eaten nothing hot in over a week.

  After rummaging in the provisions box, she procured some root vegetables. Chopping up the few turnips and potatoes didn’t take long, so she cut up some salted venison as well. She tossed it all into a pot of water, and while that heated, she hunted the nearby growth for wild ginger shoots to add a tang. By the time the water boiled and the scent of pottage wafted strong, Rufus wandered in from his scouting.

  Just as a man on a horse rode into camp, coming from the east.

  Elias and Matthew advanced toward him, Rufus tagging their heels. Mercy hung back, staying near the fire. Holding the reins with one hand was the sandy-haired man she’d seen with the wagons. She’d detected he seemed to coddle one arm, but this close up, she saw why. His arm lay limp in his lap, bound with linen strips soaked through with a yellowy-orange discharge. Brown stained the edges of that mess. That kind of injury needed an open-air salve with a light pack of dried cottonwood batting at night, not a strangle of cloth—and filthy cloth at that.

  He dipped his head in greeting toward the men. A single, garish peacock feather tucked into his hatband bobbed with the movement. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Her brows shot skyward. Gentlemen?

  “’Tis a right fair one.” Matthew tipped his head up at the man. Judging by his stance, all loose-legged and thumbs hitched into the front opening of his hunting frock, he didn’t see the newcomer as a threat.

  But when the man’s gaze strayed past Matthew, beyond Elias, and lighted on her, she clenched the stir stick in her hand until her arm ached. Too much interest glimmered in his green eyes. Far too much curiosity. She knew that look, for she parried it often.

  Elias sidestepped, blocking the man’s view. “Are you looking to ford the Nowadaga?”

  “I am. I have two wagons to guide across.”

  “Yer a guide?” Rufus turned aside and spit, then wiped a smear off his chin.

  Even from yards away, Mercy saw the stranger’s upper lip curl. For once she was in agreement with Rufus. This man was no guide, leastwise not an experienced one.

  Ignoring the question, he slid down from his mount, taking care not to jostle his sore arm overmuch. “My name’s Logan. Garret Logan, guide to the Shaw party.” He offered his good hand to Matthew.

  Matthew shook it. “Matthew Prinn.”

  Logan moved on to Elias. For a moment, Elias stood rock still, not taking the man up on his greeting. Did he sense something not right about this guide as well?

  Finally, he gripped the man’s hand. “Elias Dubois.”

  Rufus shot out his hand—the one he’d used to swipe away the spit. “I’m Rufus. This here’s my grandpappy.” He elbowed Matthew with far too much gusto.

  Logan barely touched Rufus’s fingers before pulling back and stationing himself in front of Matthew once again. He aimed a finger at the wagon with the broken wheel. “Met with hardship, have you?”

  Though the man spoke to Matthew, Elias cocked his head toward Logan’s arm. “Looks like you met with some of your own.”

  A smile lightened the man’s face, teeth white in a mat of a sandy-colored beard—far too trimmed and smoothed for trekking through the wilderness. Perhaps if he’d paid closer attention to his surroundings instead of his grooming, he wouldn’t have suffered such an injury in the first place. “I acquired a knife wound, I’m afraid, and it is festering more than I’d like.”

  By now the other two wagons had rumbled into the clearing, filling the space near to full. Two men, two women, and two children piled out. As they drew near, Mercy studied the men first. Both were tall and big-boned, giving the impression of competency, but each wore a sunburned nose, as if neither had the intelligence to don a hat during the heat of day. Strength without common sense was worse than dangerous. It was deadly. Shaggy haired, with shaggier beards, they were the opposite of Mr. Logan with their fine coating of dirt and travel grime. They sported similar noses and the same color eyes, the hue of a blue trade shirt washed one too many times in murky water. Were they brothers then?

  Tagging one man’s heels were two young boys. Mercy set down her spoon and folded her arms, shoring herself up for trouble. She’d once seen raccoon cubs destroy an entire season’s worth of dried berries by sneaking into an impossibly small crack in a storage hut. These two boys were capable of far more than that, with their torn breeches, untucked shirts, and freckles scattered across their cheeks like a handful of pebbles tossed into a pond.

  “Jonas! James!” A spring day of a woman caught up to them, surprisingly light of step despite her protruding belly large with promise. What on earth was a woman this close to birthing doing out here? Sunlight glinted off her spectacles as she bent to haul each boy back with a tug on his shoulders.

  Joining the group last was another woman, holding a bundle of swaddling close to her chest. Her skirt hem was caked with filth, a queer contradiction to the pristine white baby wraps in her arms. While the two men introduced themselves, Mercy stepped around the fire to gain a closer look at the woman. Something wasn’t right about her…but what?

  “Wife, come over and meet the Shaws.” Elias stretched out his hand toward her, an inviting smile curving his lips.

  She bristled. Must he carry out this charade with such easy cheer? Unfolding her arms, she smoothed her skirts and joined his side. When he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, she clenched her hands, fighting the urge to yank out her bodice knife and end such a liberty here and now.

  “This is my wife, Mercy. Mercy, meet the Shaws. Amos and his wife, Mary.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” The older man tipped his hat, and the dark-haired woman next to him offered a tremulous smile, pulling her gaze from the babe in her arms only for a moment. Her face was like the moon, pale and round, one that could change in the night. A strange light shone in her eyes, hinting of madness, not a rabid savagery but the kind that caught a person off-guard with its stealth, like it might reach out at any time and snatch a bit of Mercy’s own sanity.

  Elias’s fingers dug into her waist, reminding her to respond.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Shaw.”

  The other man and his wife stepped forward, both dipping their heads. “I’m Nathan Shaw and this here is my wife, Emmeline. ’Tis surely good to see some fellow travelers. We have not run across any since Fort Edward, and I know my wife and my brother’s could use some womanly conversation.”

  Mercy sucked in a breath. Surely they did not plan on staying that long. Elias’s forearm tensed against her back, and next to him, Matthew cleared his throat. Only Rufus seemed to ignore the suggestion of the Shaws remaining long enough to strike up companionship, for he ambled off with a whistle.

  “Well,” Matthew’s voice rumbled, “we’ll be happy to help you ford the river if you like. There’s still enough light left to cross with time to spare for you to make camp on the other side.”

  “Very generous, but it seems you folks could use our help first. What do you think, Mr. Logan?” Nathan Shaw looked to where the man had taken up a silent residence at their flank. “Mightn’t we stay here a day or two to help these folks with their wheel?”

  The man opened his mouth, but Elias interrupted. “No need. We would not want to hold you up.”

  Nathan stepped nearer, turning his face away from his wife, and lowered his voice. “The truth is, the women and little ones could use a break. We’ve been pushing them hard. Too hard. We can spare a day or two, and that’s a fact.”

  “No! You cannot stay here.” The words tumbled out of Mercy’s mouth before she could stop them. All eyes turned her way.

  Elias chuckled, but compared to his usual good humor, this laugh sounded strangled. “You will have to pardon my wife. It seems she is
a bit hard up for conversation as well. If you will excuse us, I shall have a word with her now.”

  He hustled her aside before anyone could question her and did not stop until they rounded their wagon and were out of hearing range.

  The forced smile on his face fled, and a stranger stared out at her through his blue eyes. “Do not raise suspicion like that. A single misspoken word can ruin an entire mission. I have seen it happen.”

  She looked away, preferring to study the stained canvas of the wagon cover instead of the accusation in his gaze. He was right, and that shamed her more than her loose tongue. “I apologize,” she mumbled, then she shot her gaze back to his. “But those people can’t stay here, not with us. You know they can’t.”

  He pressed his fingertips to his brow and rubbed. Was she giving him a headache, or were the Shaws?

  “Listen,” he said. “I do not like this situation any more than you do. But whether they move on or stay, we have to play the part, Wife.”

  He tossed the word like a knife to be caught. Should she grab the challenge with an open hand and work with him? Or not? Yet was it not her duty to carry out the assignment given her?

  “Very well.” The agreement she spit out tasted bitter, but even more sour was the smile she forced after it.

  The sooner the Shaws crossed that river, the better.

  Daylight died a long and anguishing death. The time for the Shaw boys to bed down wouldn’t be soon enough for Mercy’s liking. Their whoops and chatter violated the peace even down at the riverbank. A nest of rattlesnakes wouldn’t make as much noise or wriggle about so.

  She threw another handful of wet sand into the stew pot and scrubbed the bottom, breathing in the damp evening air. Across the river, dusk smeared shadows together into a blend of ashy charcoal. The sky was on the verge of rolling over from indigo to onyx, and peeper frogs piped a chorus despite her presence. This time of day was holy, a reverent peace settling everything down for the coming night—or it would be without the Shaws’ ruckus.

  Dipping the pot into the water, she rinsed out the sand. The tin inside practically gleamed, she’d been at it so long. Never easy around women, she’d kept her distance from Mary and Emmeline. They were probably fine people if she’d give them a chance—which she wouldn’t. Too risky. She had ever preferred the plain speaking of men. Women most often attacked sideways and upside down with their catty remarks whenever they felt threatened. She purposed to give the Shaw women no cause for such spite.

  Heavy footfalls crunched at the top of the bank. She’d heard the approach long ago, but an irrational hope that whoever it was would go away kept her from turning, for it surely wasn’t Matthew or Elias. They trod with ghost feet.

  Garret Logan slid-walked down the slope, then stopped next to her. The tip of the peacock feather in his hatband riffled with a slight breeze. “Good evening, Mrs. Dubois. I hope I did not startle you.”

  Rising, she stretched her mouth into a small smile. “It takes more than footsteps to startle me, Mr. Logan.”

  His green gaze swept over her like an ill wind, and she shivered.

  “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  Clutching her pot, she whirled to climb the bank, letting his first volley sail over her head. No sense asking what he meant. The hardened gleam in his eyes indicated he’d already summed her up to less than nothing—the usual reaction of men who couldn’t look past her height and independent ways.

  She’d just gained level ground when a grunt of pain back at the river’s edge slowed her steps. The suppressed moan that followed stopped her feet. The third cry turned her around. Even a suffering wolf merited either a quick slit to the throat or some healing help to end its suffering.

  Below, Logan kneeled near the water, his arm—now unbound—dipped in the river. The tight hunch of his shoulders screamed louder than his groans.

  She blew out a sigh, unable to stop the softening of her resolve against the man, and retraced her steps. “I will leave out an onion from our stores, Mr. Logan. Mash it up and put the paste on that wound of yours for the night. Come morning, wash your arm again, then leave it air-breathing. The festering will stop, and it will heal.”

  He stood and faced her, arm dripping at his side. Darkness hid his face but not the revulsion in his voice. “An old Indian trick? I will not partake in such savagery.”

  This was the gratitude he showed for her compassion? She clenched the pot handle tighter. If she stood any closer, she’d swing it at his head. “’Tis a common enough cure out here in the wild, known to whites and reds—and you’d know it too if you were a true guide. Tell me, Mr. Logan.” She dared a step closer. “How much are you fleecing the Shaws for, and what kind of trouble are you running from?”

  His head jerked back. A direct hit. “It is women like you, Mrs. Dubois, too independent, too free with your mind, who are a stain on the fabric of this land.”

  A slow smile tugged her lips. If Elias heard this conversation, Mr. Logan would have more than a festering arm to heal from.

  “I am the land, sir—a land that will chew you up and spit you out. You won’t make it to Fort Wilderness in one piece. Neither will the Shaws. Their blood is on your head.” She turned to hike the bank and called over her shoulder, “I will set your onion out if you want it.”

  Though each step carried her farther from the hateful man, she upped her pace anyway, even if it did shoot pain from her crushed toe clear up to her shin. By the time she reached camp, she’d blown off most of her anger—but not all, apparently, for as she neared the wagon, Elias stepped out of the shadows and grabbed the pot from her.

  His blue gaze held her as firmly. “What has you so riled?”

  She swung her braid to trail down her back, loosening her shoulders and her ire. “Just needed a brisk walk.”

  “I could use one myself.” He glanced over to where a fire blazed, lighting the faces of the Shaw men and one of the women—Mary, with her babe yet clutched in her arms. Did the woman never set the little one down?

  Elias shifted his gaze back to her. “I have put out that fire twice now, but every time I turn my back, those men are hell-bent to kindle it again. I am surprised they made it this far from Fort Edward without being set upon.”

  Elias’s low voice soothed in a way that wrapped around her shoulders—or mayhap not his voice, but the land-wise knowledge that was so much a part of him. She respected that. And more.

  “I will see to this pot.” He strode off on soundless feet—so unlike the earlier stamp and crunch of Mr. Logan’s steps.

  She followed. Better to get that onion out now and hole up in the wagon for the night until it was her shift to keep watch. “Where’re Matthew and Rufus?”

  “On first watch. We need two pickets at a time with this much noise and smoke.” He winked down at her.

  When they reached the wagon, Elias crouched and set the pot underneath, upside down, to keep it dry and clean. She stood on tiptoe over the back gate and rummaged in the provisions box.

  “Need something?”

  She stiffened at his nearness, his scent of horse and smoke far too alluring. Likely it simply reminded her of Onontio—though she’d never felt quite this tingly with her brother standing next to her.

  “An onion,” she answered.

  He cocked his head. “Is your toe not healing properly?”

  “The skin’s mending fine.” She grabbed the onion and faced Elias. “I told Mr. Logan I’d leave one out. That arm of his will do him in if he doesn’t treat it soon.”

  Elias’s jaw hardened. “When did you talk to him?”

  “Down by the river.”

  The call of a whippoorwill worried the night air, mingling with Elias’s grunt. “That man is trouble. Keep your distance.”

  This time his command didn’t rankle nearly so much. Were she to hold his words in her hand and examine them by sunlight, they might almost sparkle with endearment. Flit! What was she thinking?

  She set down the onion on a n
earby rock, then straightened at the approach of swishing skirts and thudding boots. She and Elias turned at the same time.

  Amos Shaw and his wife, Mary, drew near, his arm holding her close about the shoulders. “My wife here is weary-worn. We came to say good night before you two cozy up for the evening.”

  The innuendo stole her breath. Of course they expected her to sleep with the big man next to her. A reasonable enough assumption, but one that lit a fire in her belly.

  Elias shook his head. “I am about to go put that fire out, then I shall take the next watch. Get yourselves to bed, and we will see you come morning.”

  Mary’s amber eyes landed on Mercy, a frown dimpling her chin. Something wasn’t right about the woman. She was like a beautiful china cup, turned so you couldn’t quite see the ugly chip in the porcelain. What was it?

  The babe in her arms lay deathly still and quiet. Another mournful whippoor-will haunted the air—and then Mercy knew.

  She pressed her lips tight to keep from gasping. In all the hours the Shaws had been here, that baby hadn’t made one squawk—not a cry, a peep, or a movement. Nor had the woman set the bundle down. That was no baby. It was a swaddled mass of grief not even her husband could pry from her arms.

  Mary’s lower lip folded into a pout, and she looked at Elias. “Do not trouble yourself about the fire, sir. It is near to go out. Your wife is sorely in need of you.” She lifted her face to her husband. “Mrs. Dubois doesn’t have a little one yet, Amos. Surely we can spare them a night?”

  A night? Mercy’s pulse took up a war beat, and she inched away from Elias. His big hand caught hers before she could make a run for it.

  Amos kissed his wife on the brow. “That is my girl.” He beamed at them. “Mary is right. There’s no need for you to take any watches tonight with us here, Mr. Dubois. There’s plenty enough men to cover for you. How long has it been since you two have had some time to yourselves?”