The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  “As will I.” Matthew’s voice shot straight and true over his shoulder.

  Elias stifled a smirk. No doubt Mercy had told the ranger about his murderous retreat.

  Rolling to the side, Logan staggered to his feet. Without a word, he retrieved his hat where it lay on the ground, then scurried off toward camp like the rodent he was.

  Matthew blew out a long breath and faced him, an odd gleam in his gray eyes. “Mercy warned me you were about to put the fear of God into that man. As much as I appreciate it, you know I can’t allow you to hunt anyone down. Don’t make me shackle you up just when I’m beginning to like you. I expect better than that from a man of your caliber.”

  He bit back a smile. Lord, but he admired this man. Maybe—perhaps—if Grandfather had used such encouraging words more often, he might not have strayed so far in rebellion. Who knew? But one thing he would bet on. Matthew Prinn would make the finest grandfather a boy could have. He clapped the man on the back. “I will take Logan’s watch. You go on back.”

  Turning, he strode off along the riverbank, keeping to the weeds. Matthew and Mercy were good people. The best. And the longer he stayed with them, the harder it would be to leave them.

  But even harder would be convincing his Wyandot contacts not to harm them.

  The squawk of crows jerked Mercy awake—but not fully. It took her a few blinks to attach meaning to the overhead branches and back side of a wagon. She pushed up with a yawn, thankful the long night of midwifery was finally over. She’d rather outrun a Seneca with a war club than attend to another birthing on her own, for Emmeline had bled thick and heavy after the delivery. Truly, it was a wonder Mrs. Shaw’s heart yet beat after the loss of so much blood.

  Mercy glanced down at the woman sleeping next to her. Emmeline and her new babe nestled together beneath a faded quilt, both breathing evenly. The woman looked hollow-cheeked and pale, but the babe, while impossibly tiny, held good color and slept soundly. Having made it through the night, the child stood a fighting chance of survival—as good as any of them could hope for in the middle of a war-torn wilderness.

  She tucked the blanket snug where it had fallen away at Emmeline’s back, then dared to run a light finger over the little one’s cheek. Silky. Warm. With each stroke, a foreign yearning welled stronger. What would it be like to nuzzle a downy-headed babe of her own? To hold in her arms a child created in love, with a tuft of dark hair and eyes the color of an endless sky, blue as—

  She drew back, stunned by the rogue desire. Lack of sleep and the strain of the journey were getting to her.

  Taking care not to jostle Emmeline or the babe, she crawled out from beneath the shared blanket and arched a kink out of her back. Sun slanted lines of shadows from a stand of nearby hemlock, and she rubbed her eyes—then berated herself. She was no better than Rufus. Morning was already half spent and here she stood sleepy-lidded. A fine cup of the Shaws’ coffee would be just the thing, if Mary were of a mind to share—or if she were of a mind at all. The woman might not yet have a grip on her senses.

  Rounding to the front of the wagon, she neared the campsite and scanned the area. Elias, Matthew, Rufus, and Nathan Shaw huddled near the broken wagon, the repaired wheel at the ready to put back on. The Shaw twins each grasped a shovel and were furiously digging a hole—or trying to. Breaking ground next to a broad-trunked maple was near impossible. A small smile twitched her lips. Had that been Elias’s idea to keep them out of mischief? Had he given that worthless guide Logan some busywork to do as well? For that man was conspicuously absent.

  But so were Amos and Mary. Turning on her heel, Mercy headed to their wagon. If Mr. Shaw was with his wife, perhaps a request for coffee would be a possibility.

  Rounding the back of the wagon, she slowed her steps. A low voice—one frayed to ragged threads—filtered out from the canvas.

  “I can’t take this anymore, Mary. I can’t lose you too, not like our boys. Please, Wife, come back to me. Come on back. Don’t do this to us.”

  The raw grief etched deep in Amos’s words seared Mercy’s ears. Would that she could brew a tea, blend a salve, do something for the man’s wife. Broken bones, torn flesh, those things could be mended, but how did one heal a mind so ravaged by sorrow?

  Mercy turned away from Amos Shaw’s murmurings. Such intimacies should be left in private. Better she dip her feet in the river than interrupt such a moment for a trifling cup of coffee. Cold water would work just as well to fully waken her.

  She retreated and strode across the campsite, bypassing the men shoring up the wagon. Elias and Matthew strained all their muscles into wielding logs they used as levers while Rufus and Nathan shoved a makeshift stand beneath the back edge of the wagon. She paused, heart swelling in a strange way at how well Matthew and Elias worked together. With the combined effort, bit by bit, the wagon rose. By tomorrow, they ought to be back on their trek to the fort.

  Turning from the sight, she padded the rest of the way to the river with a soft step, a habit from years of walking invisibly. If her mother had learned to do the same, she would not have suffered such derision. Oh Mother. She sighed as she sank to the ground and unlaced her moccasins, shoving down the bitterness that still dogged her years after her mother’s death. Would she never be free of wishing things had been different? Be released from the anger her mother’s faith still bubbled inside her?

  “Trust, Daughter. Trust in a God who is big enough to make the universe, yet kind enough to dry each of your tears.”

  She frowned. Would that God had never given cause for tears to be created in the first place.

  Before she left the safety of the spring growth, she scanned the banks for any sign of danger. Black water flowed undisturbed, upriver and down. No canoes. No unexpected rustle of brush on either side. All appeared to be—No, wait.

  One by one she shut down her senses, focusing on a pinpoint of blue that ought not be flashing against the muck left behind from receding waters.

  She shoved her feet back into her shoes and gathered her skirts, trekking down twenty yards or so to the sight. Bending, she plucked a peacock feather from the mud. Why would Mr. Logan’s treasured ornament be here? He was a proud enough man to take great care of his belongings. This was no accident.

  Her gaze dissected the immediate area. Five paces farther, hoofprints marred the mud—headed toward the water. She hiked her skirts high, impropriety a thing she’d long ago learned to discard at a moment’s notice, and waded into the Nowadaga. Thankfully the rain-gorged river had decided to calm into a proper stream, and she crossed without a tumble.

  On the other side, curved gouges in the soft dirt led out of the water, heading straight into the trees. Never once in the days they had spent together had Mr. Logan ridden off in such a fashion. Why now?

  Standing tall, she shaded her eyes against the sun and squinted into the woods. A thrashed path beat a trail as far as she could see. Clearly the man had ridden off toward Fort Wilderness, but—She pursed her lips. That he’d made it so obvious did not sit well in her empty belly.

  She let go of her clenched skirts and worked her way south along the riverbank, scouring for any sign of disturbed ground. After a mile or so, the growl of her stomach urged her to turn around and break her fast, ignore the silly man who’d ridden into danger, and—

  She stopped, gaze snagged on a depression in the muck from where a rock had sat. A stone that size wouldn’t just up and march off like a soldier. Something had kicked it into the water. Shifting her gaze, she stared inland. Bent weeds, not much, but spaced wide enough to accommodate the leap of a horse. Her brow tightened. Why had Mr. Logan taken so much effort to show he’d ridden into the water, away from camp, then doubled back and hidden his return? Was he even now stretched out and snoring on his bedroll, having completed whatever harebrained errand he’d been about?

  Pivoting, she tromped back to the crossing, angry with herself for having fallen prey to Mr. Logan’s antics and even angrier with him for havin
g put them all in danger by running off into the forest. She’d give him an earful and then grab an oatcake for breakfast.

  She stalked back to camp, not caring if she had to wake the man for being such a dolt, but when she got to the spot where he’d set up his own lean-to, the ground beneath it was barren. No bedroll. No pack of belongings.

  And no Mr. Logan.

  Elias grabbed a canteen and sank onto the ground. Back propped against a hemlock, he stretched out his legs and swigged back a long drink before he joined Matthew and Rufus in loading the crates. Getting the wheel on took more grit than he’d reckoned. Still, God was good. How long would it have taken without the strong back of Nathan Shaw to help them?

  As if he’d conjured the man, Nathan strode over and sat cross-legged next to him, handing over a strip of jerky. “’Tisn’t much, but you wouldn’t want me to cook a meal.”

  “Thank you.” He bit into the meat and tore off a chunk.

  So did Nathan. As the man chewed, his gaze followed the movement of his boys, directly across from them beyond the trail. Their shovels forgotten, James and Jonas had dropped to their knees and were scraping up dirt using some rocks.

  Nathan shook his head and faced him. “It is a sad shame you don’t have little ones yet. The way you keep my boys in line, you will make a fine father. I’ve learned a trick or two from you.”

  The jerky stuck in his throat. Him, a father? And a fine one at that? He swallowed hard at the ridiculous notion. He knew nothing of little ones or their ways. No, his knowledge of human nature—be it younglings or elders—had been forged in the flames of experience. It took a scheming mind to know the function of another’s, may God forgive him.

  “No tricks involved.” He swigged back a drink and swiped his mouth. “You cannot stop someone bent on mischief, but ofttimes you can redirect it.”

  Nathan cocked his head. “How so?”

  “I told your James and Jonas a story I heard once, of an Indian cache of arrowheads buried at the base of a tree just like that one.” He nodded his head toward the boys. “And they have been at it ever since.”

  Nathan chuckled. “My wife and I are beholden to you.”

  “There is no debt.” Tearing off another bite of jerky, he shrugged. “You helped us make repairs. It seems we are even.”

  “Far from it. Emmeline is more valuable than a broken wheel. If Mrs. Dubois hadn’t helped her, my boys and me might be digging something worse than an aimless hole right about now. Your wife is a fine woman, stepping in to help the way she did.”

  A memory of her pale face surfaced, the sheen of dread blinking at him from wide eyes, just before Mercy took on the delivery of the Shaw baby. She’d been terrified, but she’d done so anyway—and without complaint. Indeed, she was a fine woman, in more ways than one. He grunted in agreement.

  “But you’re not really married, are you?”

  The question flew like an arrow in the dark, sticking him through the throat without warning of an attack. He forced his expression to remain as stoic as a Wyandot sachem while scrambling for a response that wasn’t an outright lie. “What makes you say that?”

  Nathan’s gaze bored into his. “There’s a tension between the two of you, a wanting and not having. Like a couple courting and being denied.”

  His gut clenched, and he was hard pressed to decide if it was from the fact that the man had been studying them far too keenly, or because there was some small measure of truth to his observation.

  Regardless, he corked his canteen and stood. “My thanks for the jerky, but we’d best get on to loading our cargo.”

  Nathan shot to his feet, staying him with a hand on his sleeve. “No offense. ’Tain’t none of my business.”

  He pulled away. “None taken.”

  They both turned at the sound of swishing skirts. Mercy drew close, pink of cheek and huffing. “Hate to tell you this, Mr. Shaw, but your guide is gone.”

  Logan gone? Though slipshod, at least the man was a guide, of sorts. How were the Shaws to manage with a newborn babe, a mother not yet recovered, and a woman who even now suffered so cruelly she’d not let go of her husband?

  He stepped closer to Mercy, studying her face. Maybe she meant something different, though what, he couldn’t imagine. “Gone where?”

  “It appears Mr. Logan beat a clear path toward Fort Wilderness, but a mile downriver, he doubled back. I did not follow it any farther, thinking he’d likely come back here. But all his belongings are gone.”

  “Worse than that.” Matthew’s voice turned them all around. “He has taken some of our belongings along with him.”

  The sunny day turned blood red. So much anger shook through her, Mercy retreated from Matthew and Rufus lest she strike them for Logan’s thievery. She should’ve known the man was up to something when she’d caught him poking around their cargo yesterday morn. Across the way, the Shaw boys hollered at each other, and her own scream begged to join theirs.

  Next to her, Elias turned to Mr. Shaw. “Go get Amos. This needs to be sorted out.”

  Sorted? She choked. The situation needed more than a peace talk. As soon as Nathan Shaw was out of hearing range, she growled out, “I should’ve knifed that man when I had the chance.”

  Matthew frowned at her. “Violence only begets violence. You know that as well as I.”

  “Not if I grounded him first. I should have—”

  “There is no time for should-haves,” Elias interrupted. “What did Logan take?”

  “Gold. Near to half a crate.” Rufus shot out a broad fire of expletives. “I’m with Mercy. We grab our guns and hunt him down for the skunk he is.”

  Rufus wheeled about, and for a half second Mercy considered joining him.

  Matthew yanked him back by his collar. “Tracking in a rage makes for mistakes. Elias and I will set out. Logan can’t have gone far.”

  Rufus sneered. “Dubois ain’t even got a gun.”

  “Do you really think I need a musket to bring in Garret Logan?” His voice was a panther’s growl.

  “You managed to get hauled in while totin’ one.”

  “Enough!” Matthew cuffed the young man on the back of the head. “Rufus, go run a scouting check on the area. Elias, come with me.”

  Matthew turned. Elias stalked after him.

  And so did Mercy. “I’m coming along. You know I can see farther than the two of you combined.”

  Elias just kept on striding to where the horses were hobbled.

  But Matthew stopped, his gray eyes kind yet firm. “I need you here, girl. Those Shaw men have to be talked out of going any farther into the backcountry, and you’re just the one to do it.”

  Frustration roiled in her empty belly. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the best one to remind them of their wives.”

  “But—” She clamped her mouth shut.

  Matthew had set his jaw. Once he did that, there was no point in going any further, not even with a stick in hand.

  She whirled, stifling a huff, and marched ramrod straight over to where the Shaw brothers rounded their wagons. Both had aged years in the space of three days.

  She stopped in front of them. “My father and husband”—she paused, swallowing back the sour taste of the lie—“have gone off to bring back Mr. Logan.”

  Nathan Shaw nodded, his shoulders bent as if he alone bore the weight of the world. “We’re much obliged, Mrs. Dubois. Seems we’ve brought more trouble upon you folks than any of us reckoned.”

  “Don’t fret on our account. Life is trouble, and there’s no stopping it. It is in the darkest skies we see the brightest stars.”

  Amos Shaw tugged at the soiled kerchief around his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Wise words.”

  “Then I hope you will listen to what I have to say next. Come, let us sit.” She bypassed the men and settled near the ashes of the spent fire. Even though no flames flared, the familiar position of working through issues at a fire pit was too ingrained to even think of
sitting elsewhere.

  She waited for the brothers to sink onto the ground across from her before she began. “You have already been cautioned on the dangers of continuing to Fort Wilderness and beyond.”

  “We have.” The brothers exchanged a glance, then Nathan Shaw faced her. “Yet we’re not to be moved. There’s no going back east for us, with or without Mr. Logan’s guidance.”

  She bit her lip. Willful men! How to upend minds plowed so deep into a rut? There could be no better outcome than the sharp end of a tomahawk if they journeyed west. But what about south? An idea began to unfurl, lifting her chin with the possibility of it. “I have an alternative.”

  Neither man spoke a word, but both their heads cocked.

  “There is a closer fort you might want to consider. While I can’t promise the route will be any safer, I can say for certain ’tis a lot shorter.”

  Nathan Shaw rubbed his jaw. “We ain’t heard tell of no other garrisons out this way.”

  Of course not. There weren’t any. But this was the next best thing—and the only idea she had left in her quiver. She forced a small smile. “It is more of a fortified house than a garrison.”

  “Speak plain, Mrs. Dubois. No need to fancy up your idea. I give you my word I shall consider it.” He glanced at the other man. “Amos?”

  His brother nodded. “Me too.”

  “All right.” She leaned forward. At least they had given her a fair shot, which, despite Matthew’s confidence, was more than she’d expected. “Not far past where the Nowadaga drains into the Mohawk River, there’s a trading post set up by a man named Johannes Klock.”

  “But we—”

  She held up her hand. “I know you aim to set up your own post, and you will. But for now, it might be best if you sheltered with a family who can teach you how to interact with the people of these lands. It takes more than slapping up four walls and hanging an ‘open’ shingle on your door. You need patience, understanding, and a fair amount of cunning. The Klocks know this.”