“Don’t even think it, Dubois.” Matthew’s threat blasted him from behind.
Shaking his head, he turned to the man. “You have nothing to worry about from me.”
Mercy’s soft steps drew up alongside him. “You know these people. Why is there a squad here? We are not near a fort.”
“If it is only one squad, they are more than likely men who have been replaced, on their way to Montreal for reassignment. I doubt they are looking for trouble. There were no Wyandot with them? No Seneca? Ottawa or Shawnee?”
Matthew shook his head. “None. All white.”
“Like I said then, men on their way home. My guess is they will soon cut northward.”
Matthew grunted.
Mercy shifted her stance, resettling the gun on her back. “Then we continue with our ruse of settlers returning east?”
The set of Matthew’s jaw did not bode well—nor did the black gleam in his gray eyes. “I’ve got a few changes.”
Elias stiffened. “Such as?”
“If any of those French soldiers recognize you, or take sport and rummage through one of our crates, this mission is over. We are captives. Or dead.”
Elias threw out his arms. “Bragg’s men already killed the men who knew me.”
“You sayin’ there ain’t more?”
Blast, but the man was cagey!
“I cannot say that for certain, but Bragg knew that, even when he put me on this team. His orders were to travel as a family, keep my head low. That is what I aim to do.”
Mercy advanced toward Matthew, peering at him all the way. “He is right, but what’s your plan, Matthew?”
His gray gaze shifted to Mercy. “We hide the gold, tie up Elias, and move out in the morning. After the squad passes us, we double back and retrieve our belongings, then go on as usual.”
Elias’s breath hitched. If anyone unpacked that gold but him, they would discover his secret. He strode over to the duo and glowered at Matthew. “Are you mad? It will take too long to bury all that gold and repack the crates.”
A muscle on the side of Matthew’s neck jumped, and he deadlocked Elias with a stare, daring him to break away first.
But Elias held—a trait he’d learned from the best. His father.
“Bah!” Matthew spit out then stalked past them both. “Get a move on. That gold ain’t gonna bury itself.”
For a moment, Mercy looked at him with cavernous eyes, then turned aside and followed Matthew on silent feet.
Thunder and turf! The two were a pigheaded pair. He stalked after them. He’d have to make sure he was the one unloading the marked crate, or their lives could be in danger.
As he worked his way down the ridge, other possibilities surfaced. While he did not relish being tied up, this could be the perfect time to slip away once the wagons rolled off—providing Matthew didn’t tie too awful a knot. He’d have to leave the gold behind. A loss, that. But if he could manage to hide the leather packet of metal tips between hunting frock and shirt, at least he had a fair shot of making it to Boston in time to help the men of Fort Stanwix.
He landed on the flatland, heels digging hard in the soft ground. Should he leave? Or stay? Both were risky.
Stifling a groan, he trudged toward the wagons. Lord, but he was tired of risk.
Fighting a yawn, Mercy traipsed through shin-high wildweed, tired enough to drop in her tracks. Why was she doing this? Roaming free and outsmarting the enemy had always given her a thrill, but now, as she trudged after Matthew with the prospect of a long night of backbreaking work, still aching from the loss of her father and possibly her brother, she had a hard time remembering that excitement. Perhaps Matthew was right. Maybe it was time to leave behind this vagabond life.
She slapped her way through a swarm of biting midges, shoving the rogue notion away as well. Exhaustion sure had a way of dulling her mind. For it had to be fatigue, this nettling idea of wanting to settle. To pack her griefs and troubles into a lockbox and stow the thing under a bed in a solid-framed house. She kicked at a rock, sending it skittering through the grass. Fatigue. She would accept no other reason.
Ahead, Rufus yanked off his hat and slapped his knee, shouting an oath. Apparently he wasn’t excited about burying the gold either. As she drew nearer to where he stood talking to Matthew at the side of his wagon, the last of day’s light painted his reddening face a deep shade of rage.
“I will have no part of this! I will see you court-martialed for disregarding my father’s orders.” He stomped off, leaving a trail of obscenities in his wake.
“I hate to say it, but this time I am siding with Rufus.” Elias’s low tone came out of nowhere.
Startled, she jerked her face aside and stared up at blue eyes pinned on her. How had he caught up to her without rustling the weeds?
“Matthew’s doing what he thinks best for us all,” she murmured. “I trust him implicitly.”
Elias shook his head. “God alone is worthy of that kind of trust.”
A grimace crept across her lips. The man sounded far too much like her mother.
Matthew advanced toward them, a shovel in each hand. He threw one to Elias, who caught it without effort.
“The ground is softened where water runs down off that rise.” Matthew jutted the tip of his shovel to where the three of them had recently descended. “We dig there. Mercy, hitch those horses and drive the first wagon over, if you please.”
They parted ways, Matthew and Elias swooshing off through the grass. She stopped by her wagon to grab a bite of jerky, then braided her loose hair before she crossed to where the horses yanked up tender greens. The munch and crunch was a soothing sound, and for a moment she stood mesmerized, her heart swelling with compassion. The poor beasts had no idea their dinner was about to be ruined. Was that how it was for God, looking down on them?
“Poor fella.” She patted the lead horse on the neck and grabbed his rope. “Just when you thought you were done for the day, hmm?”
Night fell with a heavy hand by the time she positioned Matthew’s wagon next to the beginnings of a long, shallow ditch. Her task was to take out the heaps of household goods while Elias and Matthew pitched shovelful after shovelful of dirt. Together they unpacked the gold and trade silver, nestling all in the earth, like so many cold bodies into a shallow grave. Once the crate was emptied, she reloaded the goods, pounded the top back on, and moved on to the next.
The night was more than half spent by the time they finished one load and she drove over the wagon she and Elias usually occupied. The ground wasn’t nearly as soft as Matthew had expected. Hours later, the cloud cover cleared, brilliant stars dotted the heavens, and the temperature dropped, bringing a chill that, despite her hard work, made her shiver from head to toe.
About halfway through the load, Elias planted his shovel and hefted himself out of the ditch. “Mercy is spent. She needs some rest. I will take on her part of the job.”
Despite her exhaustion, her eyes shot wide open. Where had that come from? She’d not lagged, despite her screaming muscles. She’d neither tripped nor bellyached nor gone off into the brush to take care of necessities.
She dropped the bags of trade silver into the hole, freeing her hands to prop them on her hips. The man’s command crawled under her skin like a mess of biting ants. He spoke of her as if she were naught but a child. “Thank you for your concern, Husband.” It was a snippety thing to say, but it wouldn’t be stopped. “Yet I will rest when we are all done.”
Matthew leaned against his shovel handle and blew out a long breath. “The man’s more than right, girl. You need some rest. We all do.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sleeping while you two are working.”
Elias advanced, his voice warm in the cold air. “You have more than proved yourself. I think I speak for us both in that I or Matthew would not think any less of you.”
“I would think less of me!”
Matthew straightened. “Then we bury the rest of it whole.
We’re running out of time as it is. We’ll dig deeper and toss in the last of the crates without separating the contents.”
Elias shook his head, a disgusted rush of air passing his teeth. But he set back to work, as did Matthew.
By the time they buried the remaining crates and reloaded the wagon with the much lighter contents, Rufus ambled in. Late as usual.
“We ready to leave?”
Two shovels dropped. So did Mercy’s jaw. “In this dark?”
Rufus hitched his thumbs in his breeches, the dark silhouette making him more of a scarecrow than ever. “I figure if we near those soldiers soon as they set out at sunrise, we can follow ’em back at a distance, then cut in here and retrieve our load soon as they pass. By day’s end, we’ll cover a fair amount of miles instead of none.”
Matthew’s chest rumbled, but whether out of agreement or wanting to throttle the young man, Mercy couldn’t tell.
“First we cover this ground with rock and brush, then we will see how close it is to daybreak.” Matthew heaved his shovel into the wagon, the scrape of it competing with Rufus’s curse.
“Why waste time with that?”
Mercy arched her back. Indeed. Every bone in her body cried out to set herself down on that wagon seat and nod off for a spell. She turned to Matthew. “Do we have to—”
“The faster we cover up this dirt, the faster we get on the road.”
They all set to work, and glory be, Rufus did too. By the time they finished and the first hint of gray edged in from the east, a thick layer of rock and briars hid the disturbed ground. Anyone chancing upon it wouldn’t be the wiser, especially since they also made sure to beat down the grass in other areas as well, turning the whole glade into a confusing twist of wagon tracks and flattened weeds.
She forced one foot in front of the other, drawn by the call of the wagon seat, longing to sink down. The wood would surely feel like a velvet cushion.
“Mercy, grab your gun and fetch some rope.”
Behind her, Matthew’s words hit hard between her shoulder blades, and she tripped over her own foot. She knew this was coming. Knew it had to be done. And she wouldn’t argue against it.
But as she grabbed the rope from where it hung inside the wagon, she squeezed the hemp as tightly as the squeeze of her heart, wishing Elias wasn’t a traitor.
That instead, he was the honorable man she wanted—nay, needed—him to be.
Elias smirked as he trudged along the ridgeline. Here he was, marching between two guns again. Mercy in the lead and Matthew behind. This time, though, he strode toward freedom—provided he could work his way out of the bindings that cut into his wrists at his back and retrieve the hidden weapon before they returned.
The coming dawn etched a gray outline on the shaggy tree branches, dissipating the ominous shadows. He’d hoped for thick cloud cover awash with a hard rain, but soon enough, sunshine would poke holes in the dark woods. It would be difficult to cover his tracks, especially from the keen eye of Mercy—and then it hit him. His step faltered. He’d be running away from her, putting a forever kind of distance between him and the only woman he’d ever thought twice about.
“Over there, that stand of hemlocks.” Behind him, Matthew’s voice prompted Mercy to veer westward.
They stopped at a trio of trunks. Nearby, a spruce sapling—tall and thick enough to provide cover—obscured the base of one of the trees.
Matthew tipped his head toward him. “Hunker down between the spruce and that tree.” He slid his gaze to Mercy, his gun never lowering from Elias. “Mercy, train your barrel on him while I tie him up. Open hammer.”
A scowl ferocious enough to make a grown man back off darkened her face. “You really think—?”
“You know the treachery of man more than anyone.”
“No need.” Elias crouch-walked his way past the scratchy limbs, working his body into the space between the trees. “I will not fight against you.” He dropped to the ground, back against the trunk.
Even so, the click of Mercy’s hammer violated the innocence of the morning. Matthew set his gun near her feet and then grabbed the rope.
The whole while the man secured him to the tree, Elias stared up through the breach in the spruce branches to memorize the shape of Mercy. The curve of her pert chin. The hollow at the bottom of her throat. The way her braid swung over her shoulder and rode the swell of her breast, tailing off at the spread of her hips. Even in a torn skirt and with dirt smudged along her jaw, the woman was a dangerous beauty. She belonged here, in these woods, a daughter of earth and light. What would it be like to really be her husband instead of the farce they had been playacting? How passionate? How all consuming? For he had no doubt this woman would give her all to the man she loved.
He lifted his gaze higher, meeting her eye for eye, wanting—needing—one last look. She cocked her head. Questions swam in those brown depths, almost as if she knew he was saying goodbye.
Pain dug into his chest as Matthew whaled on the rope, and he grunted.
Mercy scowled. “You’re hurting him!”
“Just snugging it tight. Won’t be for long. We’ll be back before noon. Besides, he is the one who will get a good piece of shuteye while we face the dragon.”
Matthew’s footsteps circled the tree, then he crouched next to him, smelling of hard work and weariness. “I’m just doing what’s got to be done, but I think you know that, aye?”
He nodded. “I would be doing the same, were I in your shoes.”
“Good. Then I hope you understand this.” In one swift movement, Matthew yanked off his neckcloth and shoved it in his mouth, like a bit in a horse, and tied it tight behind his head.
“Matthew! You’re taking this too far.” Mercy’s voice scraped fierce against the cheerful drone of early morning bird chatter. “He has never once given us a lick of trouble.”
Her defense of him was a sweet balm against the way the cloth cut into the corners of his mouth.
The ranger rose and retrieved his gun. “Can’t take any chances of him calling out when those French pass. Now, turn around and start walking.”
He couldn’t see her, not with the way Matthew’s hulking figure stood between him and her. But it wasn’t hard to imagine the flare of her nostrils as she strained out, “Why?”
“Do it.” Matthew’s voice was flat, commanding. Deadly.
He bit down hard on the cloth in his mouth. What did the ranger have in mind? For the first time, he wondered if he’d been foolish to allow himself to be bound. Had he misjudged Matthew Prinn’s character?
Mercy stamped off. Not her quiet-stepped pace, nor her silent scouting tread. Each thud of her feet shouted her anger.
Matthew turned back to him, gun in hand. “I am mighty grieved about this, Dubois.”
He lifted his gun higher.
Elias strained against the ropes, wild to break free—and even wilder to spit out the gag, for a terrible understanding broke as clear as the rising sun. It had been two days since he and Mercy had read the Indian sign carved into the moss on the rock. Whatever that message portended would happen today, and they hadn’t covered much ground since then. Danger lurked nearby, and he’d be a fish in a barrel should that portent come to pass. He growled like a cornered bear.
And the butt of Matthew’s gun stock cracked against his skull.
Then blackness.
Pure, blessed blackness. One he could lie in wide-armed and float upon for days and days. Maybe he should. So tired. He was so, so tired. Yes, he could live here in this silent dark, nestled in nothingness…were it not for the niggling drive to swim out of it. He had somewhere to be, didn’t he? Someone to save? An important errand?
Nay, none of that mattered anymore.
Not one thing mattered.
He awoke to a blackfly buzzing on his nose. Pain hammered a beat in his skull, centering just above his left ear. Burning, throbbing, anguishing. So sharp it shot down through his jaws and choked him.
Rays
of sun slipped in through the spruce boughs, and he closed his eyes. Too bright. But how bright?
He forced his eyes back open, squinting along the length of a beam, judging the angle. Couldn’t be much past dawn. If Matthew had meant that wallop to the head to keep him out until their return, he should’ve taken into account the thickness of his skull and grit in his spirit, for his senses barreled back with surprising clarity. He had to move.
And he had to move now.
Biting down hard on the cloth in his mouth, he wriggled to work the ropes on his wrists against the bark of the tree. Pain bounced around in his head like a shot let loose from a musket, so sharply the world spun. But more than that agony was against him. So was time.
Warmth trickled down onto his fingers as he rubbed away rope fibers and flesh. He worked a steady beat, insanely matching his movements to the throbbing—and then he stopped. Rock still. Listening with his whole body. Had he heard something?
There, between the scampering of squirrel paws and caw of a crow, footsteps rustled the underbrush. Soft. Steady. Stealthy. Moving in from the north. Drawing closer.
Nearer.
The stink of bear grease and man sweat closed in, breaths away. He held his. If a warrior found him here, his throat would be slashed before he could blink.
God, please. Hide me beneath Your wings.
Ten, maybe twelve, warriors slipped past him, stealing toward the ridgeline. Red and black painted their faces. A war party then. Each man’s hair was shaved to the scalp on the sides of his head, the rest bristling down his back beneath a stiff roach headdress, the identifying factor for which the French named this tribe Wyandot.
Silently, they fanned out, spanning the rocky cleft above the glade, leastwise near as he could tell from his vantage point. Then stopped. Words passed, quiet as the breeze, too low for him to identify anything other than, “We wait.”
Blast! His head pounded. His hands were yet bound. And a war party blocked his way to retrieve the French weapon. What in the world were they waiting for?
The pain in his head shot down to his heart with a sudden, awful awareness. These savages were hunkering down until Matthew, Rufus, and Mercy returned. How they knew the wagons would come back was beyond his reckoning and would have to be pondered at a later time.
The Captured Bride Page 16