Amos Shaw blew out a big breath.
Nathan shook his head. “’Tain’t what we had in mind.”
She speared the man with a pointed stare. Sometimes a direct hit, while cutting to the bone, did the most good. “Neither was a babe come early with a mother still too weak to lift her head.” She snapped her gaze to Amos. “Or a wife broken by grief.”
Amos Shaw reared back as if she’d slapped his face. Nathan’s lips folded into a grim line.
She held her breath. Had she pushed them too far?
For a long while, no one said anything. Only the chatter of the boys across the way—for they had given up their bickering—carried on the morning breeze, mixing with birdsong and the soft squall of a newborn.
Nathan ducked his chin. “Give us a few moments alone, Mrs. Dubois.”
“Of course.” She stood. “I will go check on Emmeline.”
“Wait.”
She turned back at the sound of Amos Shaw’s quiet voice.
“Could you—would you mind checking on my wife too?”
She nodded, then swung around and grabbed up a mug of water on her way to Mary Shaw’s wagon. Dread dogged each step. What would she find? Would the woman light into her for bringing a babe not her own into the world? Would there be tears? Screams? The swipe of claws or worse…gaping silence and hollow stares?
“Mrs. Shaw?” she called out as she neared the wagon.
No response.
“Mary?” Reaching for the seat, she hauled herself upward. Still no answer.
Sucking in a breath for courage, she grasped the canvas covering the opening. “I’m coming in.”
Growing up amongst warriors, she’d seen things that had turned her blood to the chill of a winter night, but as she crawled into the Shaws’ wagon and gazed upon Mary, she shivered.
Mary Shaw curled into a ball, naked as the day she graced the world. Wicked red scratches covered her arms and legs, everywhere her nails could’ve possibly ripped away skin. Most were dried scarlet, yet some still oozed. Her eyes followed Mercy’s entrance, fiery and cavernous, but did she even see her?
“Just me, Mary. ’Tis Mercy.” Another shiver shimmied across her shoulders, and she forced her arm to hold steady as she held out the mug. “I brought you some water.”
Mary didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t anything.
How to deal with this? A cornered badger could take down prey three times its size—and Mercy suddenly knew exactly how that prey felt. Keeping her movements fluid and steady, she set the cup down, then dared to inch closer.
“Mary? You all right?”
She reached out a tentative hand and rested her fingers on the woman’s bare back. Sometimes a gentle touch calmed more than a soothing voice. Slowly, she rubbed a circle on skin prickled with gooseflesh, avoiding the scratched areas. Mary did not move, so she edged closer and rubbed some more.
What seemed like hours passed, and in that eternity, the sun slanted higher where it worked its way up the canvas back opening. Mary’s shoulders sagged looser. The woman’s grip around her knees loosened. Her eyes never closed, but the glassy sheen eased to normal. Perhaps this was working.
Quietly, for anything loud might shatter the tentative peace, Mercy hummed the same lullaby she’d sung to Emmeline the night before.
And a tiny sob gurgled in Mary’s throat.
“Oh dear one.” The words, her own mother’s, slipped past Mercy’s lips unbidden. “I don’t know how many babes you have lost, and I don’t need to, but what I do know is this kind of grief isn’t made to fit inside your body. You must allow your heart to break so that the sorrow runs out. My mother used to tell me there’s more love in Christ for us than there can ever be brokenness. Only in turning to Him can you be healed on the inside.”
Her hand paused, stilled by a sudden insight. Was that how her mother had survived the loss of her family? Her captivity amongst the Wyandot—and later the Mohawks? Was it her mother’s continual turning to Christ that had given her such joy, her reason for not fighting against her captors?
Perhaps the weakness in her mother that she’d reviled all these years had really been strength—God’s strength. Why had she never thought of that before? Shame withered her spirit, curling it up every bit as much as the woman shrunken before her.
“Iesos,” she whispered. “Take this scorn from me, the pain from this woman, and heal the broken parts in both of us.”
Mary stiffened. She did too.
For the warmth of a thousand suns suddenly filled the wagon.
Elias walked on silent feet in the water, his moccasins leaving no mark where the Nowadaga ran smooth along the bank. Matthew followed, gun in hand. It rankled to have his own fingers hanging loose at his sides, but there was nothing to be done for the injustice.
The sun beat warm and the river nipped cold as it leaked into the seams of his shoes. He frowned. Had he known he’d be so waylaid from his original course to Boston, he’d have taken extra care last time he greased the leather.
Five paces later, he stopped and crouched, studying grass barely bent, a slight indentation where a rock had once sat, and a river that flowed unrelenting. Not much to go on.
Lord, but Mercy had a keen eye.
Satisfied, he straightened and nodded toward the opposite bank. Matthew shadowed his steps, neither of them splashing nor hardly rippling the water. The ranger knew how to track as silently as any brave—he’d give him that.
On the other side, they paused and scanned the rocks. Sand and shrub ran sparse up to the wood line, making it harder to distinguish disturbed ground. He shook his head, annoyed this foray was eating time he didn’t have.
“I never should have threatened Logan last night.” A sigh trailed the end of his words. “This is on me. He is running scared.”
“He is running stupid to think he can get away.” Matthew pointed five yards farther south, where the bank dropped off from the trees. Beside a row of tree trunks, a depression flattened the middle of a patch of wild ginger—not big, but enough to give away the tread of a horse.
Elias smirked. “Well, I never did credit Logan with much sense.”
Climbing the bank, he grunted, pleased. The man had made no effort to hide his trail. Maybe this wouldn’t take so much time after all.
“Truth be told”—Matthew pulled up alongside him—“I did not credit you with much sense at first either.”
He glanced sideways at Matthew, as off-center as the statement. Why such a confession? “Sounds like you changed your mind.”
“In most respects.”
“And others?” Turning his head, he gazed at the man full-on.
Matthew shrugged. “It depends.”
His step faltered. The ground rose and dipped, the uneven remains of a long winter’s freeze—but the terrain had nothing to do with his sudden imbalance. A foreign longing troubled his step—a desire for Matthew Prinn’s good opinion. “What would that depend on?”
“How much space you give Mercy.”
Space? What was he to make of that? He paused, searching for a hint in the lines on Matthew’s face. “I do not follow.”
One brow rose. Was that mistrust or astonishment?
“Don’t tell me you have missed noticing the girl’s smitten with you.”
He snorted. Unbelievable. Perhaps he’d credited Matthew with too much sense. He veered away from the man and his preposterous idea, following the angle of a hoof gouge pointed northwest. “Mercy would as soon knife me as she would Logan.”
“No, you’re wrong. I’ve seen how she looks at you. I’ve never known her to give any man a passing glance, but you? You she studies. Memorizes. I wager there’s a battle raging fierce inside her that she can’t begin to understand.”
Heat as from a dying sun scorched through him, and he sucked in a breath. Was such a notion true?
He shot forward, prodded by a realization he dared not reach out and hold hands with. “You are sorely mistaken, Prinn. Mercy is of a
sharp mind. She would not go wobble-kneed for the likes of me.”
“I would have sworn she’d not go wobble-kneed for anyone—ever—knowing her history.”
“Which is?” Elias turned back around, facing the man.
“’Tain’t really mine to tell, but—” Matthew rubbed his chin. “I s’pose ’tis common enough knowledge. Mercy’s mother was a white woman, taken captive by the Wyandots.”
He grunted. That explained her animosity toward the French, being they were practically one and the same. Still, something didn’t sit right. He squinted at Matthew. “But Mercy is part Mohawk, is she not?”
“Aye.” The man nodded. “Her Mohawk father stole her mother as part of a raid on the Wyandots’ camp, taking her for one of his wives. Her mother never quite picked up the people’s ways though, choosing instead to cling to her Christian faith, which of course the other women scorned. Mercy included. Troubles her to this day, whether she owns up to it or not. And I will not see her troubled further by the likes of you.”
He held up his hands. “I have not touched the woman.”
Matthew’s gray eyes bored into his. “Good. Keep it that way. I will not see her heart pierced through, not by you. Not by anyone.”
The thought of Mercy weeping over any man curled his hands into fists. “On that we are agreed.”
Turning, he shrugged away from Matthew’s intense gaze. Better they give the entire conversation concerning Mercy a good distance.
Matthew fell into pace beside him, and for a long while, they stalked quietly. Logan’s trail was simple enough to follow. The fool had no idea how easily he could’ve been pursued by those bent on killing.
“’Tain’t none of my business, but I am a mite curious.” Matthew shoved aside a swath of dogwood branches, allowing them both to pass. “Why did you switch sides?”
He blew out a long breath, disgusted more by the answer than the question. He’d known going into this he’d lose face with his countrymen. And in truth, before he’d met up with Matthew and Mercy, that had never bothered him. His brow tightened into a knot, for it surely did trouble him now. What would Matthew think if he shared his story of intrigue and espionage? Would the man believe him—or brand him a liar, bent on talking his way out of prison?
His shoulders sank. As much as he valued Matthew’s esteem, he couldn’t reveal his mission.
“It is…complicated,” he finally said.
Matthew chuckled. “Good.”
He jerked his face toward the man. “What?”
“That was no easy answer.” Matthew clouted him on the back. “Enemy or not, I respect a man acting on conviction.”
He pressed his lips flat, stifling an openmouthed stare. How much of a different man—a better man—would he be if he’d had this man for a father? No wonder Mercy fretted over parting ways with this ranger.
Ahead, sticks snapped. Tender young plants swished. Something moved. Fast.
Toward them.
He dropped. Matthew flattened against the trunk of a fat maple. Neither of them breathed. Matthew cocked his hammer full open.
A horse emerged. A black-tailed bay. Riderless—but laden with saddle and bulging bags.
Elias shot up and dashed after the horse, easing it with a low, “Here boy, good boy,” on his advance. The animal slowed, and he snagged a loose rein, then led the mount back to Matthew.
Matthew pulled out a handful of dried berries and offered them over with a flat palm. “So, where’s your master, eh, fella?”
With the horse occupied, Elias tied off the lead on a nearby branch. “I wager he is not far, being on foot—which begs the question, why? Logan would not willingly let a treasure roam far from his grasp.”
“Aye.” Matthew nodded.
They both plunged farther into the woods, then stopped short a quarter mile later, just before the ground gave way to a ravine with a sheer rock face. Were this a creek, the cut of it would make for a spectacular waterfall.
Elias peered over the brink. Below, a dark shape lay unmoving, head jutted at an unnatural angle.
Garret Logan.
Twilight padded in from the wood’s edge, silent, thick, and gray, like a great wolf on the hunt. A chill came with it, teasing curls of steam from the bowls in Mercy’s hands. She handed them over to Amos Shaw.
“Thank you.” He nodded.
She rubbed her hands along her apron, wiping off the moisture from a few drips. “You might want to save that thanks until you take a bite. I’m not much for cooking. How does your wife fare?”
“Better since this morning. I don’t know what you said, but it got her dressed, and she is willing to eat.” He held up the bowls. “No matter the taste.”
“I am glad for it.” And she was, truly, but in her belly a remnant of disappointment yet churned. After the strange sensation she’d experienced in Mary Shaw’s wagon that morn, she’d felt certain the woman couldn’t help but be as changed as she. As lightened of spirit. As freed. But Mary Shaw had yet to emerge from the confines of her wagon.
Still, the easier step of Amos Shaw and the lift of his shoulders as he retreated squelched that disappointment. He was pleased with his wife’s progress. That would have to be enough.
Grabbing her own bowl, she turned to find a spot to sit. Nathan and his boys took up one log. Elias sat on another—with enough room to spare. She sank next to him and, for one blessed moment, relished taking the weight off her foot. Her toe was healed—mostly thanks to comfrey soaks every chance she could manage one—but it still felt good to ease up on it now and then. She sighed before digging into her pottage.
“You sound as weary as I feel.” He flashed her a smile before tipping his bowl and draining the rest of his stew.
She cocked a brow. “I did not think you ever tired.”
Swiping his mouth, he set down his bowl and faced her. “Retrieving Logan’s body out of that ravine was harder than either Matthew or I expected. He must have been riding at a good clip to have been thrown with such a force. Then there was digging a grave, reloading our cargo, mm-hmm…” He closed his eyes. “Sleep will come easy tonight.”
“Tell us a story, Mr. Dubois?” Food flew out of Jonas’s mouth, right along with his question.
“Yeah!” His brother bounced beside him, soup spilling over the bowl’s rim and darkening his breeches in a wide splotch on his leg. “Tell us another one.”
“Now, boys,” Nathan interrupted, “let the man eat his supper in peace.”
“Aww!” Their combined voices keened into a fine whine.
Mercy gritted her teeth, spoon hovering above her bowl. What those boys needed was a firm hand for such insolence. Mr. Shaw merely shoveled in another bite of his soup, ignoring the rascals and their complaints.
“Well…” Elias hunkered forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. From her angle, he was all shoulders and back, muscle and strength.
“Since I am finished with my supper, as long as you boys promise to finish your meal and pack right off to bed when I am done, I will tell you a story.”
“Deal!” they said in unison.
“All right. There is a tale told by some northwoods trappers near Montreal, way up in New France. It goes like this.”
The boys stilled. So did Mercy. Elias had a way of mesmerizing like none other—grasping her attention and pinning it down—and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Elias lifted his hat and ran his hand through his hair, shoving it back beneath the band, out of his eyes. “There was a woman who lived in those northern woods, a beautiful woman, so comely no one could figure out why Mademoiselle Delphine lived by herself in the wilds. Some say she was a witch, but surely you boys do not believe in witches, do you?”
Two sets of wide eyes stared back at him from the other log. No, three. Half a smile tugged her lips. Apparently Nathan Shaw loved a good story as well.
“I suppose that is neither here nor there though.” Elias sniffed. “The fact is that Mademoiselle alw
ays carried with her a set of keys. Some say she used them to lock up lads who were naughty, but I do not think you boys have anything to fret about. Montreal is far off, and you two are not of a mind for mischief tonight, are you?”
A duo of undertakers couldn’t have shaken their heads more solemnly.
“Good.” Elias slapped his hands on his legs, making them all jump. “Now where was I? Ah, yes, the keys. Early one morning, as Mademoiselle leaned against the rail of her pigpen, she spied a pig she’d never before seen. This swine was larger than the rest, grunting and rooting louder than any. When she slopped the trough, he crowded out the others, letting none but himself fill his belly. Seeing this, she grabbed her key ring and struck the big pig on the nose. Soon as she broke skin and the blood flowed, the pig disappeared—and a tall, handsome man stood in his place.”
The boys stared, drop-jawed.
Mercy frowned, disgusted. Filling children’s heads with happily-ever-afters only set them up for disappointment later in life. She knew that better than most. None of the stories her mother ever told her had come true.
She speared Elias with a stare. “And I suppose they shared a lifetime of bliss with scores of little ones at their feet, hmm?”
He winked at the boys, then smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “No. The handsome young man tipped his hat, said, ‘Merci,’ and walked away just like that.” He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, sharp on the evening air. “La fin.”
She blinked, stunned. Must he always keep her so off-kilter? Snatching up his empty bowl, along with hers, she stood.
“All right, boys.” Nathan Shaw stood as well. “You have had your story and filled your bellies. Off to bed.”
“Aww!” Jonas wailed.
Next to him, James glowered. “Just one more?”
“Your father is right, lads.” Rubbing a muscle at the back of his neck, Elias rose. “We break camp just before dawn. You shall be crossing that river as the sun blinks over the horizon, so get yourself some sleep.”
Like two pups, the boys scrambled up from the log and rambled off, chattering all the way. Poor Emmeline. Hopefully she and the babe would rest easy once the boys quieted, for no one could sleep with their ruckus. But perhaps she ought to check on the woman before night fell hard and they all settled down.
The Captured Bride Page 13