by Jody Hedlund
She’d guessed the younger one since every time he looked at her, his eyes were more intense and filled with an interest the older one didn’t seem to share. She was grateful neither one had attempted to touch her or hurt her in any way, at least not yet.
She couldn’t imagine spending the rest of her life with either one. The thought brought another wave of misery crashing over her. She let her hand hang over the side of the canoe and dragged her fingers through the cold water. Down below the waves, far in the depths where the fish swam, the lake was calm and peaceful. It was a place without trouble, a place where she’d be free of pain, where she’d finally be rid of the lonely ache that had pierced her.
Pierre was dead, Jean was lost to her, and she was being taken from the one spot on earth she loved, the only place she’d ever wanted to live. It would be easy to put an end to her misery. All she had to do was stand and lean over. The jolting motion of the canoe would send her into the open arms of the waves. The water would embrace her and pull her down to its bosom, to a warm place where no one would be able to hurt her ever again.
Surely God didn’t expect her to go on living this kind of life—a life without hope or a future. Her numb fingers dipped deeper into the water, and the icy spray splashed her bare arm. Her long tangles of hair clung to her damp face.
Was this how Therese had felt? Had the deep waters called to her too?
Angelique squeezed her eyes closed against the image of her sister shivering in the middle of a canoe, leaning ever closer to the water and peering into it with hopelessness in her heart.
She hadn’t wanted to become like her mother or sister. But was she destined to repeat their sins whether she wanted to or not?
“No,” she whispered through trembling lips and jerked her hand from the water. She wanted to be like Miriam—sweet and prayerful Miriam. When Miriam had been captured by Indians as a child, she’d survived.
Angelique tucked her stiff fingers beneath the folds of the soggy blanket. Miriam’s captivity had been worse than hers. Even though the dear woman rarely spoke of the time, she’d shared enough that Angelique had been able to piece together the story. Miriam had been just a young girl when Indians had broken into her family home and taken the entire family captive. They’d forced them to march through the wilderness for weeks, giving them very little to eat.
Along the way, Miriam’s mother had prayed and reminded them of their blessings, that they were alive and together. She’d encouraged Miriam to remember that no matter what happened in the days to come, the Lord would be her refuge and strength.
When Miriam’s family had finally reached an Indian village, the Indians had split them up and forced them to work as slaves. Under the harsh conditions, Miriam’s mother had died along with her two younger siblings. But Miriam’s father had persuaded the Indians to take the rest of the family to Montreal, where the Indians traded them to the French as servants.
Even though her father had tried to raise enough money to redeem all her family, he’d fallen short. Miriam never was able to return home. She’d eventually met Pierre’s father and married him.
Angelique hugged her arms across her chest. If only she could have the kind of faith Miriam had. Was it possible to find hope to keep going, no matter her situation? If Miriam had been able to do it, couldn’t she?
“Oh, God,” she whispered, “help me believe you are my refuge and strength. Help me believe.”
Behind her, the old Indian gave a weak shout. She turned to see his paddle floating in the water away from them. With a deftness and strength that Angelique couldn’t keep from admiring, the young Indian dug deeply through the waves to retrieve the paddle.
“Let me help for a while.” She grabbed the handle as the brave held the paddle out to the older Indian. “He’s tired.”
The brave glanced at his friend, to the slumped shoulders and the weariness in his face, then gave a curt nod to Angelique before turning and resuming his quick but deep strokes.
Angelique shrugged out of her blanket and handed it to the old Indian, who took it with a grateful nod. She plunged the paddle into the water and fell into an easy rhythm with the brave.
She didn’t stop even when her shoulders and back burned from the need to rest. For some reason she wanted to prove herself to the young Indian. From the disdain she’d noticed in his eyes from time to time, she’d gotten the impression he thought she was fairly worthless.
If she was going to have to marry him, then she didn’t want him believing she was weak and helpless. She could do more than he realized.
As the darkness of evening began to fall, he guided the canoe to a sheltered area of the shore. Though her body ached more than it ever had before, she took the young Indian’s fishing pole, dug up several worms as bait, and waded out to her waist to fish.
She didn’t like fishing from the shore as well as from her canoe, but she could still make the catch. By the time the young Indian had collected wood and started a fire, she had two trout. The older Indian smiled at her and held out his hunting knife.
She helped him move closer to the fire and spread out the wool blanket to dry before she gutted and filleted the fish. She could sense the brave’s careful scrutiny of her while he patched a leaky seam of their canoe with a gum-like mixture of beeswax and pitch.
By the time she’d roasted the fish and divided it between them, giving her portion to the older Indian, the brave’s mistrust had dissipated. He broke his own piece in half and shoved it toward her. “For you.”
“You need it more than I do.” She fanned out the folds of her skirt near the flames, attempting to dry the silky material and trying to ignore her rumbling stomach.
He placed it in the sand next to her feet and nodded at it. “Eat it.”
She glanced at him in surprise.
“You are kind to Yellow Beaver, my grandfather.” He glanced at the older man, who was already curled up asleep on the opposite side of the fire.
She rounded the fire and tugged the dry half of the wool blanket over the older man. The young Indian’s eyes followed her every move. And when she returned to the fire and rubbed her hands in front of it for warmth, the brave spoke again. “Thank you.”
His voice was kind. She could almost begin to believe there was something likable about him. She nodded at him and then picked up the warm piece of fish and brushed the sand from it. “And thank you.”
After taking a bite of the trout, she moved out of the cold sand that squished between her toes and found a spot of grass. A gentle voice whispered that even though she’d left her island, she could still find a solid place to stand, that whatever she faced in the days to come, God would be her rock and hold her up.
Maybe she had to give up hope in everything she’d ever wanted, the things that faded and could easily slip through her fingers, so that she could finally put her hope in God, who would never change or leave her.
The next morning the sun came out for the first time since they’d started their journey away from Michilimackinac. Angelique took turns paddling with Yellow Beaver, who was content to sit back and watch the changing landscape and let her help his grandson.
When she finally allowed herself a glimpse of the shoreline, she drew in a deep breath of the cool morning air and for a brief moment had a stirring of peace. The lake was clear and glassy, reflecting the yellows and oranges of the trees that were gaining their fall colors. Several mallards swam along the shore, and she caught a glimpse of a doe drinking at the edge of the lake.
Perhaps she could begin to understand some of why Pierre had fallen in love with the wilderness, why it had been so important to him. Maybe over time she would grow to appreciate it too, although she doubted she’d ever be able to love it more than Michilimackinac. But if she had to leave her beloved island and make a home somewhere else, the wilderness was beautiful.
The brave said something in his native tongue and then pointed westward. Yellow Beaver sat up, squinting as he stared into th
e distance.
Angelique let her paddle grow idle and peered ahead at the wisp of smoke rising in the air from a peninsula jutting into the lake.
With a nod, Yellow Beaver replied to the brave, then took the paddle from Angelique. A new eagerness chased away the tired lines in his face, and he plunged the paddle into the water with fresh energy.
As they drew nearer, Angelique stared at the peninsula with unease. Was this where she would find her new home? Once they reached the rest of the Indian’s tribe, would he make her his wife? Her insides twisted at the idea of sharing intimacies with him.
The brave said something over his shoulder in his native tongue. Her pulse thumped with rising panic, and she glanced at the water and the ripples made by the smooth gliding of the canoe. Was it too late to jump?
“They are waiting for us,” the brave said. “That is why we reach them today.”
Along the shore were half a dozen large voyageur canoes pulled up into the sand with stacks of trade cargo piled on the beach under tarpaulins. Shirts and capotes were strewn in the brush, apparently drying in the warm morning sunshine. A couple campfires were burning with men lounging beside them, some playing cards, others sleeping. Several men were busy patching canoes while one knelt at the shore, shaving his cheeks.
“What is this place?” she muttered.
The young Indian let out a shrill cry that resembled the war cries the Indians had used on the day of battle. She half expected a tribe of Indians with hatchets and clubs to jump out of the woods and descend upon the peaceful camp of voyageurs. Instead, the men sat up and stared at their canoe, which was drawing closer by the second.
The man kneeling at the shore splashed water on his face and then rose to his feet, shaking his head and his dark curls, letting the water cascade down his wide shoulders and broad bare chest.
“Pierre . . . ?” she whispered, knowing that in her desperation for him she was turning some other man into his likeness. Pierre was dead. He couldn’t possibly be standing on some remote peninsula on the shore of Lake Michigan.
But with each paddle closer, his chiseled features grew clearer, until she was sure it was his midnight eyes that peered across the lake at her.
“Angelique!” he called.
Her heart stopped altogether, and she felt herself collapsing at the realization.
A grin spread over his features as he splashed into the lake toward them. Within seconds the canoe glided into shallower water, and Pierre waded up to his thighs in his eagerness to reach them.
A rush of joy broke through her shock. She waved to him. His face was thinner but was still just as darkly handsome as before, if not more so.
He grabbed on to the edge of the canoe and dragged it toward him, his eyes catching with hers and shining with excitement.
“Pierre!” she said, hardly able to believe he was really standing before her, breathing and moving and whole.
He reached for her and lifted her out of the canoe in one easy motion. The solidness of his chest and arms, the warmth of his skin, the heat of his breath all confirmed what her mind couldn’t grasp.
“It is you.” The joy inside clogged in her throat, making her want to weep.
“Of course it is.” He took several giant steps toward the shore, and the movement forced her to wrap her arms around his neck.
She lifted her hand to his smooth freshly shaven cheek, needing to feel him and make sure he was real.
“Angelique,” he whispered, lowering his head, his eyes taking her in like a starving man. “I missed you.” Then before she could say anything more, his lips crashed against hers, and he took possession of her with the force of his kiss.
She could do nothing less than respond with the same fervor. The mingling of their lips contained all the desperation that had built during the weeks they’d been apart, the uncertainty, the longing, and the relief of being alive and together again.
With each swirling second she grew weaker until she was as soft and helpless as a wilted flower. She didn’t want to break away from him, but the cheering and hooting coming from the men on the shore finally penetrated her consciousness.
And out of the corner of her eyes she could see the brave staring at them stoically from the canoe.
With a gasping breath she dragged her lips away from Pierre’s. “You’re alive,” she said, still unable to comprehend his presence.
“I couldn’t die,” he said with another grin that sent her heartbeat into a wild tumble, “not without one more kiss from you.”
She couldn’t contain her smile. “Oh, Pierre, I thought you were dead.”
“And leave you, ma cherie?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Never.”
She let her fingers skim his cheeks and his chin. “How did you possibly survive the Black Hole? And how did you get here?”
He nodded at the young Indian, who’d jumped from the canoe and was lugging it onto the shore with Yellow Beaver still inside. “My brother Red Fox came after me.”
Angelique glanced at the proud stiff back of the brave. “Your brother?”
“He isn’t called ‘fox’ without a reason.”
For the first time, the brave smiled at her.
“Red Fox climbed over the stone wall section of the fort, broke the lock on the Black Hole, and pulled me out.”
“All without alerting the guards on duty?” She looked again at the Indian she’d sat behind in the canoe for the past several days. She was more than a little relieved she didn’t have to marry him, but a new respect bloomed inside her. He’d saved Pierre’s life.
“Most of the soldiers were too busy celebrating their defeat of the American blockade. Lieutenant Steele had come earlier to taunt me, had seen how weak I’d become, and knew I couldn’t escape. So he hadn’t left a guard at the Hole.”
Pierre looked again at Red Fox. “But little did he know that my brother was back on the island and that he was determined to save my life, the same way I once saved his.”
Angelique’s chest swelled with uncontainable relief.
“It was the perfect night for an escape.” Pierre sloshed to the shore, carrying her as if he never planned to let her go. “I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”
“So you sent Red Fox to rescue me too?”
He nodded, his eyes flashing with anger. “I heard Ebenezer had put out a bride price for you. So I sent Red Fox back for you with my profit from the furs.”
“Then you’re the one who paid for me?”
“Of course, Ebenezer has no idea it was me. But oui, I was the one who bought you.”
She wiped a damp strand of his hair off his forehead. “Thank you.”
“I couldn’t let anyone else have you. You’re mine.” He nuzzled his nose against the tangles of her hair and then pressed a kiss on her head.
She ignored the tiny warning that whispered in the back of her mind that she wasn’t Pierre’s, that she still belonged to Jean. “You’re my hero.”
“That I am.” He swaggered forward.
She laughed, overflowing with thankfulness that God had spared his life and had given her another opportunity to be with him. She wanted to savor the moment, and for just a little while forget about everything else except them.
He climbed out of the water and onto the stretch of rocky shoreline. She wiggled to free herself from his hold, but his grip on her didn’t budge.
“I’m not letting you go,” he said, his breath warm against her temple. “I’m holding you forever.”
She laughed again. “I won’t protest.” His arms, his smile, his strength surrounded her like the warmest sunshine on a summer day. She wanted to bask in it.
He laid a tender kiss on her forehead, lingering against her skin, making her wish he’d move his lips down to hers and give her another one of his passionate kisses.
“The bourgeois needs time alone with his girl,” one of the voyageurs nearby called with a laugh. “I think we should pack up and head out and give the bourgeois so
me privacy.”
The guffaws and suggestive calls of the other voyageurs burned Angelique’s ears. This time she broke free of Pierre’s grasp and forced him to release her. When her feet touched the ground, she ducked her face with the pretense of smoothing down her skirt.
Pierre spun to face his friends, falling into an easy banter with them, cajoling them with the same measure they gave him.
Angelique straightened and, at the sight before her, gasped. There, crisscrossing Pierre’s back, were at least a hundred red welts, some of them wide scabs where his skin had been ripped open.
With trembling fingers she reached out and grazed his mangled flesh. He stiffened and slowly turned. His mirth was gone. In its place was a deadly seriousness, an acknowledgment of how close he’d come to dying.
“How did you bear it?” she whispered, her lips quivering at the thought of the pain he’d endured.
“I’m tough,” he said with a gentle smile. “And I deserved it. I shouldn’t have been playing both sides or been so deceptive.”
He grabbed his shirt from a nearby boulder where he’d spread it to dry. He jerked it over his head as if anxious to hide the marred skin.
“Don’t worry,” she teased, “you’re still just as handsome as you’ve always been.”
He paused, the shirt only half on. Then with a grin he flexed one of his arms, showing off the muscles there.
Red Fox leveled a censuring glare at Pierre. “His head is already as big as a moose’s. You should not make it bigger.”
“That’s why Pierre likes me so much,” Angelique said, smiling. “I supply him with plenty of praise for his oversized pride.”
Red Fox didn’t smile back. Instead his eyes narrowed on her.
Pierre tugged his shirt down his chest and then slid his arm around Angelique’s waist, drawing her to his side. “Admit it,” he said to Red Fox. “She’s perfect for me.”
Even though Pierre’s tone was playful, there was a hint of something serious and expectant as he watched Red Fox.