For now, his sole focus was to work his way free without alerting any of the killers.
Blue coats surrounded them, muskets at the ready. Mercy sat rigid on the wagon seat while Matthew and the sergeant communicated in a mix of broken French and English. Really, she couldn’t blame the enemy squad for such caution—but she did anyway. Were the French not down this far into New York Colony, neither would their native allies have ventured this far south.
And her father might still be alive.
“Put your guns down and take a look.” Frustration pinched Matthew’s voice, especially when the French soldier stared at him blankly, and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Regardez!”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes. Great heavens…had Matthew just insulted the man? Maybe they should’ve brought Elias along to translate. At the thought of him, she ran her thumb over her own wrist. She still hadn’t quite squared Matthew’s crack to Elias’s skull—and had let him know about it all the way here. Had Elias awakened with a monstrous headache, if he yet woke at all? Was the flesh of his wrists rubbed raw from the tight ropes?
With a sharp nod from the sergeant, four soldiers broke rank and marched to the back of the wagon. By the sounds of more feet thudding on the ground behind them, four others had gone around to the back of Rufus’s wagon as well. Soon the creak of lids being pried off and the clink-clunking of pots and goods being rummaged through worked their way up to the wagon seat.
Some of the coiled tension in Mercy’s nerves unwound, and she was glad now they had worked all night to bury the gold. Those men would find nothing and so have no reason to hold them. They would be on their way in no time.
But when the soldiers returned to their formation with a “Rien, monsieur,” the sergeant’s glower deepened.
Until Matthew reached into his pocket and pulled out a sovereign.
Mercy’s jaw dropped as the gold coin arced in a ray of sunlight and landed in the sergeant’s dirty glove.
“Démissionner!” the sergeant shouted.
At once, muskets lowered and swung to a resting position on each soldier’s shoulder.
“Goodbye, chiens anglais.” The sergeant’s thick accent dismissed their party, and the entire squad stood aside.
Matthew slapped the reins, and the horses snapped into action.
Once they were out of earshot, Mercy eyed him sideways. “Where’d you get that gold coin? Wait a minute…you gave them one of their own, did you not?”
He chuckled.
So did she. Ah, but she’d miss this man.
Her smile faded. In just under a fortnight, they would reach Fort Edward and part ways. What was she to do with her life then? Everything had been so clear before Elias and his load of gold had showed up, but now? She tipped back her head and closed her eyes, giving in to exhaustion with a long sigh.
“You’re not going to start harping on me about Elias again, are you?” Matthew’s voice rumbled along with the wheels. “’Cause I’m done jawin’ about that.”
“No, ’tisn’t that.” She opened her eyes and faced him. “What is it that made you become a ranger?”
He shoved a finger in his ear and jiggled it. “What kind of question is that?”
She frowned. It was an odd question, to be sure. But maybe—just maybe—if she understood what drove this honorable man to do what he did with his life, it would give her some guidance for what she ought to do. “I want to know.”
“Well…” He scratched the side of his jaw, whiskers rasping with the movement. “I suppose I wanted to change the world. Right the wrongs, heal the hurts of this land. I aimed to stake my claim of honor by doing big things with my life.” A strange smile curled his lips, as if he chewed on a crabapple. “I’ve come to learn, though, ’tis the small things that really make a change.”
“Like what?”
“Like you.”
Unease closed in on her. Was he calling her small, or telling her she was in need of change? “What’s that mean?”
He slowed the wagon as they neared a space wide enough to turn around, then faced her. “I have come to believe ’tis more important in this life to make one person feel loved than to go around killing and grasping for power.”
Such peaceful words were incongruent coming from the war-worn face of a ranger. She searched his gray eyes, yet nothing but sincerity stared back. “You going soft on me, Matthew?”
“Loving someone isn’t a show of softness, but of strength, for there is no stronger bond.”
She swallowed, shoving down the ember of emotion burning in her throat. How many times had this man thrown himself into harm’s way for her? Unbidden, words her mother had planted deep into her heart as a little girl surfaced. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,” she murmured.
Matthew’s jaw dropped. “What’s this? Mercy Lytton spouting the Bible?”
A rising smile would not be denied. “Despite raising me in a Mohawk camp, my mother made sure I wasn’t raised a heathen.”
“Time we get a move on!” Rufus’s voice needled them both from his wagon behind.
“Hate to say it, but he is right.” Matthew slapped the reins, lurching the wagon into motion. “Close your eyes now while you can. We’ll soon have a load of gold to repack.”
Leaning her head back against the canvas, she pulled down the brim of her old felt hat, shading her eyes, then nodded off to the quiet jingle of harness and rhythmic vibrations of the wagon seat. She did not awaken until the timbre of the wheels changed from a somewhat graded road to wilder terrain. Tall hemlocks, pines, and oaks closed in on them as Matthew guided the wagon back onto the narrow path leading to the glade.
Blackbirds chattered as they rolled into the clearing. A rabbit bounded off to safety, splitting a trail in the tall grass. The pile of rocks and brush where they’d hidden the gold remained as they had left it. She scanned the ridgeline, glancing from tree to tree. Nothing was different. A man would be hard pressed to find a more peaceful patch of woods.
Even so, the small hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
Something wasn’t right.
Matthew stopped the wagon but did not set the brake, nor did he look at her. “You see anything?” His whisper was deadly soft.
“You feel it too,” she whispered back, more a statement than a question. Scanning the area, she began to shut down all other senses—when Matthew angled his body in front of hers.
And she heard the thwunk of an arrow piercing him through the neck.
The world blurred, a whirl of green and brown streaked with light. Gasping for air, Elias slowed from his mad sprint to a stop and shored up against a tree trunk, waiting out the dizziness that muddled his vision. The burning of his bloody wrists was nothing compared to the throbbing in his skull. Running full out after a blow to the head was never a good idea, a lesson he knew well. Yet here he was, tearing through the woods like a wolf bent on a fox, wishing for all the world he could put himself between Mercy and the war party instead of skirting the woods behind the killers. His heart branded him a coward, but running off and then doubling back down to the road was the best—the only—way to prevent an attack.
If he could reach the wagon before they swung off the road.
He slowed his breathing. In. Out. Deep. Slow. And the crazy swirl began to sharpen into straight lines. A stand of maples. Squirrels darting. Gnats swarming. All took on shape, and he glanced over his shoulder, hoping, praying he’d not spy a war-painted Indian on his trail. It would grieve him to put an end to a lost one, but better a native than Mercy.
Nothing moved. Apparently the killers had been too intent on the glade in front of them to pay attention to what dangers might’ve lurked behind—a mistake he’d made only once in his life. And he had the scars to prove it. Time to press on.
He shoved off and broke into a jog. Slow and steady might serve better than breakneck. But with each step, it took everything in him to keep from bursting ahea
d at full speed. No doubt those wagons were on the move back toward the glade, and if he did not stop them…Time slapped him cold, an enemy too ethereal to fight back against.
God, grant that I reach them in time.
Deeming his progress far enough, whether in truth or just because, he swung south, working his way to the road. Hopefully. Hard to tell for certain, when he’d never actually traversed these backwoods before. Yet based on the scant snippets of descriptions Mercy and Rufus had shared, this was the route. It had to be.
Oh God, please make it so.
An eternity later, the woods thinned. He pumped his legs harder, lungs screaming, pain blinding, and nearly overran the road. Staggering to a stop, he doubled over, hands on his thighs, and caught his breath.
Then lost it.
Multiple sets of wagon tracks marred the ground, which meant they had passed this way twice. Heading away from the glade—and heading toward it.
This time he broke into a dead run.
The ridgeline exploded with warriors. Ten. Twelve? No time to count. Heartsick and burning with white-hot rage, Mercy shoved off Matthew’s deadweight where he’d toppled sideways against her. She’d have to grieve later—if she lived that long.
As she bent to grab her gun, a rush of air grazed past her cheek. The thwack of an arrow pierced the canvas behind her. Having grabbed her gun, she snatched up Matthew’s, his fingers forever frozen in a desperate reach, then dove inside the wagon.
An arrow hissed behind her. Pain seared the top of her right shoulder. The tip ripped through fabric and flesh then stuck deep into a crate behind her. She hunkered down, working her body into a crevice where the cargo had shifted. A poor cover. A deadly one. But all she had for now.
“Rufus?” she hollered. “Rufus!”
No answer. Just the lethal sound of rocks cascading from the rushing tread of moccasins. Men breathing heavy on the hunt.
They were coming.
They were coming for her.
Ignoring the sharp burn in her shoulder, she primed the pan of Matthew’s gun and balanced the weapon on the crate next to her. Then she primed hers and clicked the hammer wide. Which way to aim? Front? Back? Clammy sweat dotted her brow. It was futile, this need of hers to fight, but she owed it to Matthew to take out at least a few of his killers.
Oh Matthew. She could yet hear his voice, grumbling with emotion. “’Tis more important in this life to make one person feel loved than to go around killing.”
Her grip on the gun slackened. He wouldn’t want her to kill for him. But she couldn’t sit here defenseless either. Perhaps if she could lure the warriors to the front of the wagon, she might have a chance to slip out the puckered hole in the rear and make a run for it. But what to use for a distraction?
Scrambling for an idea, she scanned the wagon’s contents. A wool blanket. Some rope. A shovel and a bucket. Maybe she could—too late.
A war hatchet sliced into the back canvas.
She turned and fired. A groaning gurgle followed.
So did the thud of feet climbing up to the front seat.
She threw down her gun and seized Matthew’s, hands shaking so much half the gunpowder jiggled out of the pan. Hold, hold. It wouldn’t do to spend her last shot on nothing but air.
The front canvas rippled. The whites of shiny eyes set deep in a band of black paint peered in and locked onto her.
Mercy pulled the trigger.
A flash. A fizzle. A misfire.
A slow grin slashed across the face of the warrior, and he advanced.
She scrambled back—and an arm snared her from behind, pulling her against a sweaty chest. Her gun fell, and she clawed at the thick arm holding her. A knife flashed, poised to split the flesh of her neck.
“Hunh-ha!” the man in front of her shouted.
The one holding her growled, a low roar that reverberated in her own chest.
But the knife slid away, and she was yanked out the back of the wagon, a captive of a nameless warrior whose face she couldn’t see. Another man lay flat on his back, eyes unseeing and a hole in his neck, just like Matthew. Had she done that?
Her stomach spasmed, and unstoppable tremors shook through her. She’d never killed a man before—and never would again. The startling violation of snatching what was only God’s to take slammed into her. She jerked her head aside and retched.
The man holding her let go, yanking the hat from her head as he did so. She dropped to her hands and knees and heaved until there was nothing left—then heaved some more.
The black-striped warrior hefted her up by her arm. Sunlight flashed off the ring in his nose and larger silver wheels on his ears as he bound her hands in front of her. She put up no struggle. What was the point? She’d already given her best fight.
And lost.
A thong cut tight into her wrists. Then a wider lash looped over her head and settled around her neck, connecting her to the black-painted man via a short lead. All the while, he studied her with narrowed eyes, some kind of recognition flashing deep within. But what? She’d never seen him before.
Had she?
With a sharp tug on the leather, he indicated she was to follow. He led her past the wagon, around natives hauling out crates and busting them open, and beyond the front seat where Matthew yet lay.
If only she could join him.
Running toward danger was nothing new. It was a way of life. For once, Elias was thankful for his years of rebellion. Any sane man would be putting distance between himself and a band of warriors—especially being unarmed. But he pressed ahead at top speed, straining for a glimpse of two wagons bumping along the road.
He did not slow until he reached the turnoff leading into the glade—and then he didn’t just slow. He stopped. So did his heart. Flattened weeds marked ruts through the vegetation. Deep, defined, and sickeningly fresh.
And a gunshot cracked a wicked report.
He was too late.
Or was he? He couldn’t credit Rufus with much sense, but Matthew and Mercy? Between the two of them, perhaps they had seen the danger and bailed. Hied themselves off into the woods and taken cover. It was a frail chance, wispy as spider webbing, but he wrapped his hands around it and refused to let go. If only belief alone would make it so.
Drawing upon every shadow-walking skill he’d honed, he backed away from the furrows and eased into the spring growth. Though full bloom was months off, enough greenery lent him concealment. Thank God it wasn’t winter.
He darted from tree trunk, to scrub fir, to dogwood shrub, head still throbbing, wrists still raw. A whiff of musk and sweat carried on the air, as did the clank of metal upon metal. Not much farther then.
With one eye on the ground to keep from a misstep, he edged as close as he dared to the clearing and crouched in a patch of toad lilies. Ahead, two wagons sat one in front of the other, barely past the tree line, but no sign of Mercy or Matthew. For the first time since the Indians had arrived, the heavy weight stealing his breath began to lift. Mayhap they had sensed the threat and escaped.
But when a tall native rounded the corner of the last wagon, strutting like a rooster, all air and hope whooshed out of his lungs. Mercy’s hat perched atop his shaved head. The old felt that she loved. The one she’d worn when he’d last seen her.
And blood splattered the man’s face.
Oh God, please don’t let that be Mercy’s.
He clenched his jaw to keep from roaring and started counting heads—tallying up just how many he could take down on his own with nothing but fists and rage. Two men threw out crates from inside the last wagon, where four others pried off the tops and emptied the contents. The devil wearing Mercy’s hat joined in. That made seven.
He jerked his gaze to the first wagon, where tatters of the canvas flapped in the breeze at the rear. One warrior lay unmoving on the ground, forgotten—for now—amongst a heap of open and abandoned crates. Near the second wagon, a pair of men had unbridled the horses and were leading them toward the ris
e.
Eight, nine, ten. Blast! Four or five men he might be able to ward off—and that was a huge stretch—but ten? He hadn’t felt this helpless since holding François’s blue-lipped body in his arms as he’d pulled him from the river…yet another time he’d been too late to be of any real use.
Shoving away the memory, he duckwalked closer and huddled behind a wildwood shrub. The leaves blocked his line of sight, but the shortened distance made it easier to distinguish their quiet words.
“White dogs! There is no treasure here.”
“English lips cannot help but lie. Their hearts are thick with deceit.”
“We are the fools, making a pact with pale-faced devils.”
“All is not loss, my brother. Even now Nadowa leads Black-Fox-Running’s daughter to camp. Let us return and see his glory walk.”
Some of the tension in his jaw slackened. It must be Mercy they spoke of, for he could believe nothing other than she was yet alive—maybe not for long—but breathing at least as long as it would take for the warrior named Nadowa to haul her into camp. For the first time in hours, a ghostly smile haunted his lips. He’d hate to be the man trying to drag her anywhere against her will.
He waited out the pillaging warriors, listening for the clanking of house-wares to cease. Eventually, after a final barrage of hateful epithets against the whites, he heard the sound of moccasins padding off. A few rocks clacked down the ridgeline, knocked loose by careless feet. Then the forest returned to nothing but birdsong and squirrels rustling about. Every muscle in him yearned to burst into a sprint and follow their trail, specifically Mercy and Nadowa’s. But prudence rooted him until he was certain no one had turned back or laid in wait for God knew what purpose.
Creeping out from behind the shrub, he paused and studied the glade. The wagons stood stripped naked save for the canvas coverings, one of them flapping in the breeze. Up on the ridge, no sign of movement. It was still a risk to expose himself to the clearing, but was not all of life a perilous gamble?
The Captured Bride Page 17