by Beth Trissel
She swayed back against the trunk, gripping its rough bark to hold herself upright. Once more, she shouted, pouring every ounce of flooding desperation into her resounding cry. “Gabe! Come to me!”
Moments dragged by, heavy with fear. She couldn’t even begin to guess how long, or how little, the Catawba would wait to see if he materialized. “Gabe, I need you!”
She prayed Shoka was in place. No one seemed to have detected his stealthy quest for an attack position. The danger she was in barely occurred to her. Heart, mind, and soul, she focused on the man she loved and on the Catawba warrior who’d risked so much for her.
Willing Gabe to come, she scoured the breaks in the shrouded foliage. The undergrowth rustled as though from a breeze, but there was no wind. Then a white canine head poked cautiously out from between some smooth green spicebush leaves and spiked grasses drooping from the storm’s force.
Rebecca held her breath and slowly extended her hand. “Come, Gabe. Come.”
The expectant hush swelled until it seemed to fill the waiting silence between the trees as he crept closer. He stopped and looked beyond her with an air of wariness. His nose lifted up into the air and nostrils flared wide to catch a scent. He seemed to know that unseen warriors observed his every move and he’d come as close as he was willing. She must go the rest of the way to him alone.
She stepped out from behind the broad tree and tracked toward her unlikely keeper. “Please don’t run away.”
Eyes on her, he remained as he was. She’d never been particularly skilled with animals; she’d hardly even succeeded in training the cocker spaniel left behind in England. It crossed her mind that she was approaching a wolf, for God’s sake, but only for a moment. Gabe was far more than a ferocious predator.
He seemed to be waiting for her. “Thank God,” she breathed out, and sank beside him to wrap trembling arms around his strong white neck. “Skizenoh. Do you see?”
“Yes.” His quiet reply came from the copse where he and the others were watching. “Hard to believe.”
She stroked the rich, comforting fur. “Believe. Do any of your companions wish to oppose this spectacular creature, or will you let us go?”
“We must speak.”
She heard the hesitation in his voice. At least one dominant man among his companions must still be in opposition. “You will bring evil upon yourselves if you attack!”
Rebecca thrust her fingers deeply in Gabe’s thick coat, straining to catch the tone of the Catawbas’ exchange. But even the sound of their words eluded her.
Lord, let Skizenoh prevail. All their lives hung in the balance.
She laid her head on the wolf’s soft neck. “Help us.”
His powerful body tensed as if he were listening.
Had Skizenoh failed? Were warriors about to fire on Shoka, or he on them?
The wolf growled, his fur bristling.
Her stomach clamped in dread.
“Becca! What are you doing?”
“Meshewa?” She jerked up her head and glimpsed him and Wabete sprinting up the trail toward her on the opposite side from the Catawba. The fog and foliage kept her from counting how many men might be with them.
She waved her arms frantically in warning. “Go! Catawba are near!”
The two men ducked off the trail and out of sight. She could well imagine their confusion at finding her with a wolf, shouting about a hidden enemy, but there was no time to explain.
Then Gabe broke away from her. “Don’t leave me!” Rebecca reached out her hands, snatching at his fur, but her canine protector bolted into the trees and she was alone.
“Go after him!” Shoka shouted.
Several muskets cracked at once in the direction of his voice.
“Shoka!” Terror for him drove her to her feet.
Again musket fire blasted. Acrid smoke wafted over the trail where she stood paralyzed.
That might have been Shoka returning fire or another attempt on him. Foreboding seared her. She envisioned him lying in a pool of his own blood.
“Wa hare ipi!” Skizenoh barked.
The firing ceased at once.
“Go, Peshewa!”
Shoka. Thank God. His voice carried from a different place this time. He’d risked his life calling to her. She ran across the trail toward the spot where Meshewa and Wabete had sought cover then stopped short.
It might be the worst idea she’d ever had, but maybe, just maybe, her presence in the crossfire could prevent an all-out battle from breaking loose. Skizenoh didn’t want her caught in the middle, nor would the Shawnee.
She drew herself up on legs barely strong enough to support her. “I’m staying right here!”
Derisive laughter burst forth among the concealed Catawba.
“Can you not make your woman obey?” Skizenoh taunted.
“You think to do better?” Shoka called back, his voice coming from yet another direction.
“For such beauty I would try.”
“Many would be glad for her. You wish for death?”
“Let us go, before more die,” Rebecca pleaded.
“Some refuse. Follow the wolf,” Skizenoh urged.
“No.”
“Go now, Sweet Dove. I wish you safe.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Skizenoh, unless Shoka is free to go with me.”
“Never do I see a woman so stubborn,” he protested.
Her legs refused to support her. She collapsed down onto the trail, oblivious of the pebbles cutting into her knees. It was no use. “Shoot me, then.”
No one obliged her. The silence following her tearful demand stretched on.
She feared what she couldn’t see, that the Catawba and newly arrived Shawnee might be creeping to attack vantages all around her. Or worse, that Shoka might be.
“Shoka! Gabe!”
No one answered. Then a new voice called out, “What in God’s name is going on here?”
She froze as a figure bore down on her, the owner of the Scot-tinged accent that had boomed out from the trees. He came from the same direction Gabe had bolted. Indeed, the white wolf walked at the man’s side, ears turned back, tongue lolling.
She stared back at Gabe’s new companion. Moccasins and leggings protruded from beneath a white, full-sleeved robe, hardly the standard dress for frontiersmen. He was sturdily built, but his age was difficult to guess. Though not young, neither could he be called old. No trace of frailty slowed his firm step. He was of average height yet the vitality he exuded made him seem taller.
As he neared, his clear blue eyes seemed to pierce her soul. Gray streaked the long red hair he wore loose around his shoulders. His weathered face was marked by more than one scar, but clean-shaven. Time had left his features untouched.
Pity warmed his blue gaze. “Poor lass. Are you badly injured?”
“Not badly.”
A murmur carried from concealed observers.
She could almost feel their palpable reaction to this man but couldn’t decipher its vein. “Warriors—Shawnee, Catawba—all around us,” she cautioned, her voice cracking with exhaustion and raw emotion.
“No doubt.” He laid his musket down and knelt undeterred at her side. The wolf settled placidly nearby.
She eyed him in bewilderment. “Aren’t you frightened?”
“Not a lot of good in that now, is there?”
A wooden cross dangled from the narrow leather cord around his neck. “Are you a priest?”
“I am.”
Shoka’s tales of the holy man who wandered these ridges stole to the forefront of her mind. What had he called him?
She plucked the name from the upheaval of her muddled thoughts. “You’re called Father Andrew!”
A smile put a shine on his ruddy features and offset the crookedness of his nose. “You’ve the title, right enough. Though some call me tetched.”
The open warmth in his manner seemed a salve for her deepest wounds. “I’ve needed a priest,” she blurted.
Father Andrew patted her shoulder. “Most folk do at one time or another. The frontier is my parish, all the people in it my flock. Indian or white, it makes no difference to me.”
He was so unlike the eccentric she’d imagined. “Did Gabe bring you?”
He spread blunt fingers on the wolf’s head and rubbed his ears. The wolf pushed against the priest’s hand and uttered a small growl of pleasure. “Gabe is it? I call him Jude, patron saint of the hopeless.”
“That’s fitting. He’s been my guardian angel. He saved my life.”
“Jude has a way of doing that. I don’t know how he finds folks. Just does.”
“He also attacked a Catawba warrior bent on my death.”
“He sometimes dispenses justice as well. Poor lass. You look all in.”
The priest slid the strap from his shoulder and uncorked a gourd canteen. Slipping his arm beneath her, he lifted her head and held the crook-necked container to her lips. “’Tis my own particular brew. Wonderfully reviving.”
She took a tentative swallow, then several more at his prompting. It tasted pungently herbal, but not disagreeable, and she was thirstier than she’d realized.
He tipped another dose down her throat before recorking the gourd. “You’re famished, too, I’ll wager.”
“Will you sit here feeding me? What of the warriors?”
“None seem bent on intruding, do they?”
No one had made a move against them. And yet, as Shoka had said, the trees had ears. “They’re out there somewhere.”
“Aye,” Father Andrew agreed evenly. He dug into the pouch at his belted waist, pulling out strips of dried venison. “You’ll not set one foot before the other without some strength. Here, lass. Eat up.”
“Thank you.” He was like the Good Samaritan in the Bible, or a saint. “Can you work miracles, Father? It seems you’ve already wrought one.”
“Have you the need for another?”
“I’m in so much trouble. I don’t know where to begin.”
“Why don’t you start with your name and why you’re lying weak and worn along this trail surrounded by avowed enemies?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Parting the leaves, Shoka watched from the misted shadows. Notha Andrew ministered to Rebecca’s physical needs in the way he’d been unable to. The kindly priest would also comfort her wounded spirit but Shoka loathed leaving her to his care. What else could he do for now, though?
Nothing. Only trust that his old friend wouldn’t forget the service he’d rendered him that dark day two years ago and would speedily return her. Meanwhile, Shoka intended to keep a close watch. If the priest chose to take Rebecca to English settlers or soldiers, Shoka would be forced to oppose him. He would hate for it to come to that.
Anxiety over Rebecca’s welfare and longing to reclaim her welled alongside his exasperation with her refusal to obey him in the face of his enemy. She was the most infuriating, fascinating woman, and he couldn’t possibly live without her.
****
Father Andrew simply listened to Rebecca as they sat together on the hazy trail, his innate warmth shining in the depths of his blue eyes like sunlight on an untroubled sea.
“That’s quite a tale, lass,” he said, when she’d at last halted.
He smoothed her tear-stained cheek with thick, work-worn fingers then scratched the wolf’s head like a beloved dog’s. “You’ve been busy, old boy.”
“Gabe, I mean Jude, looked after Kate until Capitaine Renault found her. They also need a priest,” she explained.
“I’ve two marriages to perform, have I?”
“Yes, please. I badly want to see Kate properly wed.”
“Fine by me, gal, if a Shawnee warrior and a French Catholic make no protest to an Anglican service.”
“They won’t, or they’ll have me to answer to.”
He smiled and patted her shoulder. “You’re quite a determined young woman, Rebecca Elliot.”
“I used to be a lady.”
“You still are.”
She pushed back her tumbled hair, picking a few green leaves out and smoothed her muddied skirts. “I feel more like a bedraggled beggar.”
“One has to only look at you to see where you’ve come from. The question is, where are you going?”
Mindful of unseen eyes, she gazed at the mysterious forest. “With Shoka, somehow. Can you help us, Father?”
“Jude thinks I can. ’Tis the reason he fetched me.”
“Have you influence with the Catawba?”
“Some, yes.”
“Is this why they’ve left us alone?”
“You are under Jude’s and my protection now.”
The protection of this rare creature hadn’t been enough of a deterrent to discourage some of these men, nor the threat from Shoka. “Are you so very fierce in a fight, Father?”
He chuckled. “I’m more of a peacemaker than a warrior.”
“Then why do they fear to oppose you?”
“If an attack on Jude may bring bad fortune, what might felling a holy man do? Especially this one,” he added, with a somber note in his quiet voice, and curled his fingers around the cross at his neck.
It was a confirmation of her suspicions; some sort of power shielded him.
He picked up his musket and stood, then bent to take her arm and assisted Rebecca to her feet. “We best be on our way. It’ll be dark before you know it.”
She was utterly perplexed. “Where?”
“To the Shawnee camp,” he said matter-of-factly. “You did say you wished to remain with them? If they overcame Fort Warden yesterday, I doubt they’ve strayed far.”
She gaped at him. “You mean you’ll take me?”
“You can hardly go alone. Are you able to journey?”
Her legs were still shaky and her head swirled a bit. “I’ll try.”
“Good.” He steered her back along the trail, steadying her as they went.
The wolf padded behind them, nose pointed toward the path stretching into the trees and out of sight.
She swiveled her head at the smoky-white tangle of trunks, leaves, vines, and rocks. Animal or man, much could be concealed only steps off the trail. “Will the Catawba simply let you walk away with me?”
“I doubt they’ll trouble us.”
“They’ve given Shoka a great deal of trouble.”
“And he, them,” Father Andrew added.
“Have they all gone?”
“Impossible to tell,” he said.
Renewed anxiety twisted her gut and she had the desperate urge to shout through the woods for Shoka, but she didn’t dare. “I’ve no idea where Shoka is or how he’s fared.”
“If my warrior friend is as clever as I remember, I very much doubt his enemies will find him.”
“But, are we just leaving him behind?”
“My dear lady, I expect he can find his way to camp. Don’t you see? Shoka is the hawk, swift and sure and silent as the moon.”
The priest had defined him with poetic accuracy. “Except when he’s burdened with me.”
“What else would a man rather be burdened with than a beautiful woman who adores him?” Father Andrew asked softly.
The first stirrings of hope dawned on Rebecca like the streaks of rose heralding a new day. “You mean we’ve escaped them?”
“For now. I can’t think the Catawba will risk following us much closer to a large company of Shawnee.”
She threw her arms around the holy man’s neck and hugged her straight-backed, iron-hard benefactor. “Your second miracle, Father.”
He squeezed her in return, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing in the middle of the wilderness between two enemy war parties consoling an emotional Englishwoman, and then he pulled her arms from his neck.
“Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, my dear.”
“But what of you? Won’t the Shawnee take you captive?”
He hurried her on and lifted
her over a crumbling log riddled with holes. “Shawnee are no longer eager to do me harm. I was their captive once.”
“Couldn’t you be retaken?”
“They don’t want me.”
“I thought they wanted everyone captured or dead.”
His voice was low, as if he were confiding a secret or something acutely painful. “They found me very hard to kill.”
Her eyes startled up to his. “You were tortured?”
He had the look of one traveling back to a place he’d far rather leave behind. “I was made to run the gauntlet and beaten senseless.”
“But Shoka is your friend. He would never allow that.”
“It wasn’t his village, nor did he know. After I’d regained consciousness, the decision was made to execute me, by burning.”
Rebecca gulped in shock.
“Aye. But the good Lord determined differently. Rain extinguished the fire intended for my demise, twice. Word of a holy man spread far and wide. Shoka came as soon as he heard about my fate. Some warriors were still bent on my death. He told my tormenters we were blood brothers.”
“Are you?”
“Some matters are best left as they are. The truth won’t improve them any.”
“So they let you go, because of Shoka?”
“They did. Since then, the belief has risen that bad luck will follow my demise.”
“Why did they want you dead in the first place?”
“In payment for a beloved warrior lost in battle against the English. This sort of retribution sometimes happens. Not all warriors favor torture, yet enough do that the vile practice continues. Some of their women even take part.”
Rebecca could all too well imagine. “One woman at Fort Warden would gladly have stoned me.”
“Mrs. Winn, I’ll wager.”
“Others would have sided with her.” Rebecca sagged against him with her head on his shoulder. “What’s to become of me, Father?”
He closed a consoling arm around her. “Don’t fear. The Shawnee will treat you and your kin well.”
“But the torture you speak of, I may encounter it?”
“You may. Anywhere you go in this world.”