The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  Before she could turn aside, Nathan approached her and Elias. “Once again, much obliged for the way you bear with my boys.” Then he faced her. “And I thought I’d let you know, Mrs. Dubois. Amos and I talked a piece. We’ll be heading down to the Klocks’. My thanks to you for the suggestion.”

  Relief filled her as much as the stew. When neither man had spoken of her idea all day, she’d thought for sure they were bent on going their own way. Not that the journey would be any easier, but at least it would prove a mite safer and cover a lot less distance.

  “No thanks needed, Mr. Shaw. If we do not work together, we die together.” She pressed her lips shut, surprised at how easily Elias’s words had slipped past them in the first place. It was as if part of the man had moved in and taken up residence inside her head.

  Nathan Shaw tugged the brim of his hat then ambled off.

  Elias stared at her. “So are you willing now to work with a traitor?”

  “I did not say that.” She collected all the dirty bowls, ignoring any response the man might make. Let him think what he would, for he often did the same to her. After giving the dishes a good scrubbing, she stowed them in a crate, along with a covered tin of leftovers for when Matthew and Rufus came in from watch.

  With a yawn, she trekked toward the sound of a mewling babe’s cry inside the Shaws’ wagon. But as she rounded the front of it, she paused. Amongst the beginnings of a night chorus rife with scritches and rustlings and croaks, something more high-pitched whistled at the edges. She cocked her head.

  A warbler trilled. Her pulse beat a rush of war drums in her ears. Warblers sang in sunlight, and twilight already darkened into dusk.

  She dashed back to her wagon, retrieving her gun. Overkill for a small bird—but not for a man imitating such. After priming the barrel, she strode off on silent feet into the woods.

  Shadows thickened. The loamy smell of earth, damp now in the evening air, filled her nostrils. She inhaled as she wielded her way past brush, praying to God she’d not smell the tang of bear grease or the musky scent of warriors, ready for battle.

  Darkness grew. Night animals stirred. No more warbler trills. Had she been mistaken?

  Pausing near a tree trunk, she studied the ground she’d already covered, checking to make certain no one had doubled back to sneak up behind her. Satisfied, she turned and strained to see ahead through the maze of trees and shadows.

  Far off, a doe ambled by with a tentative step, nosing the air. Closer, leftover autumn leaves rustled as an opossum passed. She stood still for so long, the chirrups of tree frogs struck up a song around her.

  Slowly, the tension in her shoulders slackened. No man-shapes emerged from the growing darkness.

  But a hand clamped over her mouth.

  Elias pressed his fingers against Mercy’s lips, gentle yet firm, fighting the urge to throttle the woman. When he’d seen her grab her gun and slip off into the trees, his gut had twisted into a thick knot. Why must she run headlong into danger? She truly would be the death of him.

  Beneath his hold, she stood rigid, neither weak-kneed nor quailing. Not a whimper. Not a sound. What kind of woman did that?

  “Shh,” he breathed into her ear.

  He released her—then wished he hadn’t. A musket barrel pressed cold against his chest, and he froze.

  “Don’t move,” she hissed and widened her stance. “What are you doing here?”

  Meeting her challenge, he stared right back. “Warblers do not sing at night.”

  Without pulling her eyes from him, she lowered her gun. “You heard it too.” Her whisper was more a statement than a question.

  He nodded, hiding a grin. Ah, but she was a picture, framed by the darkening woods. Her skin glowed soft in the last remnants of light as she stood at the ready, stance poised for a fight or a swift-legged escape. The musket in her hands was as much a part of her as the long braid tossed over her shoulder. She’d knotted up her skirts, and her slim legs, hard with muscle, peeked out bare and stockingless from her knees down. Upon his soul, he’d never seen such a singular beauty.

  A rogue desire to pull her into his arms coursed through his veins, but she’d only half-set her hammer, not fully closed it. Judging by the gleam in her eye, she’d as soon blast a hole in his chest than yield to his embrace.

  The buzzing squawk of a woodcock cut into his thoughts—thankfully. This was no time for moon-eyeing a doe, not even a comely one such as Mercy.

  “See anything?” he whispered.

  She shook her head.

  “Me either. Come on.” On silent feet, he stepped past her and led the way farther into the woodland. It was a risk, bringing her along, but keeping her near seemed the lesser of whatever evil lurked in the growing darkness.

  Ten paces apart, with her on his left, they stole from tree to tree, her tread as light as his. A marvel, that, for he’d never known anyone to move as a shadow other than himself. They scouted side by side for near a half mile, until night fell too hard to see beyond a few paces.

  Mercy closed the distance between them, signaling with a tip of her head they ought to turn back. “Whatever it was, we lost it.”

  Defeat always tasted bitter, and he swallowed. “I do not like it, the not knowing.”

  “Nor I.” Her dark eyes lifted to his.

  “But you are right.” A sigh deflated him. “There is too much darkness now. Maybe Matthew or Rufus got a lead. Whatever gave that call, it is not this way.”

  They stalked back toward camp, his mind buzzing with dangerous possibilities. He’d wager his lifeblood that he’d heard that warbler trill twice. Were they not leaving in the morning, he’d give this stretch of wood another good scouring come daylight.

  “Could have been a hermit thrush,” Mercy murmured beside him. “Makes sense. Still…”

  A half smile twitched his lips. Apparently her thoughts swam the same direction as his.

  She shifted her gun to her other shoulder. “Maybe I heard wrongly.”

  “Do not doubt yourself. It was high in pitch.” The words came out gruff, a reprimand to himself as much as to her. They couldn’t have both imagined the same sound, could they? Then again, how many unexplained screeches and growls had shivered down his backbone during murky nights while traveling with his father?

  “Though I suppose”—he softened his tone—“I have heard stranger things.”

  She slanted him a glance. “You sound as if you clasp hands with doubt yourself.”

  “Not quite. Not yet. Let’s sweep back along the other side of those boulders.” He veered north, taking care not to trip over a downed maple. Mercy trailed him, close enough that the chill air curling over his shoulder carried her sweet, musky scent.

  Twenty yards out from camp, they rounded the last of the rocky stretch. Leaving the light-colored lichen plastered against the boulders was a shame, for it proved a guideline for his steps, keeping his feet close to the line of rocks. The rest of the way would be dark-stepping on black ground, as black as the circles—

  Circles?

  He dropped into a crouch. Mercy gained his side and squatted next to him. Her sharp intake of air could only mean she understood exactly what he saw carved into the lichen at the base of the last boulder. The cut of the two spheres was fresh, connected by a line through the middle—a native sign denoting two days.

  He lifted his eyes to the black woods and stared hard into darkness now so thick there was no telling if whoever left this sign remained behind a tree or not. Or worse, if there were more than one.

  He shifted his gaze to Mercy. The same question creased her brow.

  What would happen in two days?

  Night faded like a bruise, the predawn darkness lightening in increments from black to indigo, painting the world in deep blue. Mercy passed the cluster of men discussing the surest way to cross the river on her way to the front wagon—Emmeline and Nathan’s, poised to venture across the Nowadaga. James and Jonas huddled on the driver’s seat, likely sc
heming some kind of trouble despite the early hour. She hauled herself up and nodded them a greeting, though neither responded.

  “Emmeline?” she called as she crawled through the canvas opening. “I came to say goodbye.”

  Inside, the new mother and her babe reclined atop crates heaped with blankets. Emmeline held out her hand. “I was hoping you would. I shall miss you.”

  “And I, you.” The truth of her words hit a soft spot in her heart, and she sucked in a breath. She had enjoyed this woman’s company.

  Drawing near, she smiled and clasped the woman’s cold fingers. “You keep that little one fed and warm, and she’ll grow up just fine.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Emmeline squeezed her hand. “I’m sure it won’t be long till you hold a babe in your arms.”

  Her smile faded. Emmeline was wrong. Her arms would not cradle a wee one anytime soon, but maybe someday…Her lips flattened. What a ridiculous notion.

  Leaning closer, she kissed the babe on her downy cheek then let go of Emmeline’s grasp. “Godspeed to you all.”

  “I shall never forget you, Mercy Dubois.”

  As always, the false name went down sideways, and she swallowed. “Neither shall I forget you, Emmeline.”

  Working her way around in the confined space, she wriggled back out the front canvas hole and faced James and Jonas. “You boys behave yourself. You have a mother and sister to look after, you hear?”

  Jonas frowned at her. “Mr. Elias already told us that.”

  She hid a smile. As much as she hated to credit a traitor, Elias would make a fine father one day. “Then mind what he said, and mind your father as well. Go on inside now.”

  The boys scrambled past her, bickering over who got to peek out the back canvas hole. She climbed down, emotions swirling. In the few days she’d spent with Emmeline, she’d grown to like the woman. Given more time, they might’ve been great allies.

  Matthew, Rufus, Elias, and the Shaw men still stood near the horses, though as she passed by, she noted the conversation had moved on to final route advice. None lifted their eyes to her. Just as well. When had a man ever taken a woman’s word on directions?

  Eight paces past them, she stopped even with the front of Amos Shaw’s wagon. Mary sat atop, bundled in a gray woolen shawl and long-brimmed bonnet. She stared, as usual, but this time not unseeing. Had the real Mary Shaw left behind the netherworld of bleak sorrow and ventured back into her own body?

  Mercy smiled up at her. Indeed, the woman’s eyes shone clear, and a faint flicker of a smile curved the edges of her lips.

  Lifting her hand, Mercy spoke a blessing, wishing with everything in her that it would come true. “Skennen, Mrs. Shaw. Skennen.”

  The deep blue light left over from night faded as the morning sun rose. Time for their own departure soon enough. With a nod to the woman, she set off up the road to camp, where their wagons sat at the ready, aimed east instead of west. It wouldn’t hurt to scout ahead a bit, now that the coming sun lessened the shadows. She’d grab her gun, poke around, then swing back to rejoin the others as they returned from helping the Shaws cross the river.

  Holding on to the wagon’s side, she hefted herself up to the seat—then froze. Gooseflesh prickled hundreds of bumps along her arms. A scalp lock with a turkey feather yet attached to the bloody skin was draped on the bench.

  She snapped into action, grabbing her gun from inside and hitting the ground with silent feet. A trail of moccasin prints led to the wood line, and she lifted her gaze. Shutting out the morning chill, the shush of wind, the trill of birds, she narrowed her eyes and stared, hard. A man stepped out from behind a sycamore trunk, armed with bow, arrows, tomahawk, and war club.

  A mountain of a man.

  She shouldered her gun and broke into a run. “Onontio!”

  But her steps faltered as she drew near her brother. Beneath the red and black colors of war painted on his face, a gash split his flesh from temple to chin. One eye was purpled shut. Blood darkened his breechclout, spreading from thigh to knee on his deerskin leggings. By the looks of it, that scalp lock on the wagon seat had been bought at a great price.

  “You’re hurt!” she cried.

  He lifted his chin, smelling of sweat and battle. “I live.”

  Proud man. Proud, stupid man. What had he gotten himself into? A frown weighted her brow. “What happened?”

  “I came for you with a dark tale when a snake crossed my way.” Murder glimmered in his eyes. “The Wyandot snake is no more.”

  “Only one?”

  He nodded.

  “Not a scout then.” Shoving loose hair out of her eyes, she thought hard. A lone man. An enemy. Why would a single warrior venture so close to their camp when—Of course. The circles carved into the lichen. She stared up at her brother. “A messenger. What do the people hear? What do you know of what might happen in two days?”

  “I know nothing.” Onontio’s face hardened to granite. “And our people are no more.”

  The words skittered about in the air like a swarm of gnats, ones she’d like to swipe away. “What are you saying?” she whispered.

  “After warning you, I returned home.” The cut of his jaw slanted grim. “To death and ash.”

  “But Father?” She shook her head, a useless act to ban the black thoughts that would not be stopped. “Surely not Rake’niha!”

  She grabbed his arm, hoping, wishing, needing to know that what she suspected surely wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. Not Black-Fox-Running. Never him.

  Onontio nodded swift and sharp, the movement cutting like a razor-edged blade—slicing her heart in two.

  No, this couldn’t be happening. Grief slammed against her chest, seeking a crevice to breach, but she would not let it in. One tear, half a whimper, and she’d be undone.

  She lifted her chin. “Who did this? Why?”

  For a moment, Onontio’s nostrils flared. Whatever went on in his mind could not be good. “After severing ties with Bragg, Rake’niha allied with Johnson, promising our men to fight against the blue coats’ Fort Niagara. Before the traveling sun, a raiding party of Ehressaronon swept down from the north. None in our village survived.”

  Despite her hold on him, she swayed, and his other arm shot out, balancing her. The world turned watery. She blinked, fighting against tears, swallowing back thick pain. She’d always known there’d be graves coming. Darkness coming. Heartbreak. But not now. Not yet. Suddenly she knew how Mary Shaw felt.

  After a few deep breaths, though everything in her screamed to plow into him and weep against his chest, she pulled away. She had to be strong, leastwise in front of her brother, for he shared the same hollow ache that carved a gouge in her breast.

  She blinked up at him. “What will you do?”

  “I will hunt them down.” Blood marred his words, dripping from the slash on his cheek to his lips.

  Another piece of her heart broke off. He didn’t stand a chance. “You are but one man, my brother.”

  He flung back his shoulders, swiping away the blood from his mouth. “That is of no account.”

  “I can’t lose you too!” Her ragged voice ruined the sanctity of the early morn, staining the birth of the new day with the portent of death.

  He reached out, his big thumb running rough over her cheek, leaving behind the dampness of his own lifeblood. “Our paths were meant to split, aktsi:’a. You have walked between two worlds, but no more. You must choose life. Prinn is a good long knife. Go with him.”

  Her shoulders sagged. There was no way she could tell him Matthew had plans of his own to leave her. Her brother had enough to bear without the thought of what would become of her.

  “Ó:nen Kahente.” He pulled back his hand. “Tsi Nen:we Enkonnoronhkhwake.”

  “Tsi Nen:we—” Her throat closed. Looking at her brother for what might be the last time on this side of heaven, she choked. He looked so much like a younger Black-Fox-Running, it was like speaking to her father. A sob welled up, begging f
or release. She’d never get another chance to tell her father she loved him forever. And in truth, this just might be her last shared endearment with Onontio.

  She sucked in a breath and forced out a clear voice. “Tsi Nen:we Enkonnoronhkhwake, Onontio. Ó:nen.”

  Their gazes locked in a last goodbye; then he turned and stalked into the woods. As he walked away, a shiver blew through her soul like a cold moan. She stared, long and hard, until even her keenest eyesight could no longer distinguish his strong, broad shoulders. Would she ever see him again?

  Loss stretched out bony arms and pulled her to its bosom, crushing her in a chokehold of an embrace. Despite her resolve to stay strong, to be brave, she dropped to the ground.

  And wept.

  Water squished between heel and sole in Elias’s left moccasin. He’d have to ask Matthew tonight for some extra grease to stop up that leaky seam. But for now, he’d yank off the shoe and let it dry while he drove.

  Morning light blazed a halo above the rear of the wagon as he approached. It hadn’t taken long to help the Shaws cross the river, especially now that the waters ran low and slow. But it had still taken time—time they didn’t have. Time he didn’t have. If all went well and he stole off just before they veered north toward Fort Edward, he’d still have a hard go of it to reach Boston. Four days of tough riding. Possibly five. The enormity of the undertaking crashed down on him like a rockslide. So many things could go wrong. For a moment, he gave in to hanging his head with the weight of responsibility—

  And saw fresh tracks leading away from the wagon.

  He dropped to a crouch, his gaze following the indents of two sets of footprints. The first sank deeper into the ground. A big man, then, shod in moccasins much like the ones he wore.

  He narrowed his eyes and studied the other set, but it didn’t take long before his breath hitched. The length was short, with a sharp solid curve digging heavy on the right side. Mercy’s step. Nearly on top of the other set of prints. Apparently she’d followed someone into the woods, but with no sign of struggle.