Wild legacy

by Conn, Phoebe

  "How is Falcon?" Liana asked fearfully.

  Dominique waited for Johanna to come close. "I haven't seen him since he arrived, but now that he's home, he'll surely make a quick improvement. Let's do what we can for these men so my mother can concentrate on him." With the same excellent organizational ability she had displayed in Camden, Dominique soon had their wounded guests' needs met, but she still did not know what to do about Etienne, who, with a single glance, always seemed to see too much.

  Arielle found Byron and Hunter seated on the back steps. She sat down between them, looped her arms through theirs, and laid her head on her husband's shoulder. "I have never

  been so frightened," she confessed in a trembling voice. "Your son is a strong young man, Hunter, but he is very, very ill. You may wish to summon a physician from town, but I fear he would advise amputation and it is too late to save Falcon's life by taking his leg. He would never agree to it even if it could."

  "My God," Byron gasped. "I had no idea he was so severely injured."

  "The wound pierced his thigh, which is bad in itself, but it has become infected and the infection has spread. I will do everything I can for him, but I want you both to know it may not be enough."

  Hunter slipped his arm from Arielle's and stood to face her. "Does Alanna know how bad this is?"

  Arielle shook her head. "I have not told her, but I suspect she must. I have Falcon soaking in a tub now. It will make the wound easier to reopen and clean. I left Belle with him. They have not had nearly enough time together."

  "They have had their whole lives," Hunter reminded her. "The Seneca believe evil spirits roam forests, bewitch people, and cause sickness. False Face was a being who was banished by the Great Spirit for boastfulness and condemned to spend eternity curing the sick. The men of our False Face Society carve terrifying masks and wear them for ceremonies which scare away the evil spirits. I'm going to take Christian out to the woods and carve masks so we can perform the ritual for Falcon. It may take us a day or two. Can you give us that much time?"

  There were people who laughed at her herbal cures, so Arielle took Hunter's offer seriously. "You must return by sundown tomorrow night at the latest. Even that may be too long."

  "I know you'll do all you can to save him." Hunter rested his hand lightly on Arielle's shoulder, and then went inside to tell Alanna where he was bound, and to find Christian.

  Byron looked over his shoulder to make certain Hunter

  had closed the door. "Falcon was weak, but he was talking to us, and lucid, as we carried him up the stairs. I had no idea he was this sick, and Hunter wants to carve masks?" He shook his head in disbelief.

  "Do not forbid him the right to pray in whatever manner he chooses," Arielle begged. "Falcon's life is in God's hands, and he needs every prayer we can send toward heaven."

  "Yes. You're right. I shouldn't have made fun of Hunter's beliefs when he never criticizes ours. What shall we do for Belle? Should we send for a priest and insist she and Falcon wed while he can still repeat his vows?"

  Arielle relaxed against her husband, but grasped his arm more tightly. "We can not make that suggestion without telling Falcon we are afraid he is dying. No man needs to hear that when he is gravely ill."

  Byron patted his wife's hands. "Falcon and Belle are very close, Arielle. It may be a difficult thing to say to him, but it could very well be the best decision for her."

  Arielle closed her eyes while she pondered the meaning of Byron's words, but after a moment's reflection, she still could not agree. "Belle would want what is best for Falcon," she assured him, "and she would never accept such a hasty wedding merely to give her his name. If, God forbid, he dies, she can simply call herself his widow and no one will object."

  Byron could not help but think of his sister, Melissa, and Christian, the son she had never even seen. "His child might," he insisted.

  Appalled by that bitter assumption, Arielle let go of his arm and stood. "Do not even say that," she replied. "I do not ask much from you, Byron, but you must give me this. There will be no questions, and no wedding unless the idea comes from Falcon himself."

  Taken aback by the force of his wife's conviction, Byron rose slowly. They had had few serious disagreements over

  the years, but he sensed this issue could provoke the worst argument yet. With Arielle already carrying so much responsibility for Falcon's recovery, he did not want to burden her with his anger. "You're asking me to put Falcon's welfare above Belle's," he explained calmly. "I don't believe that's wise."

  "You must trust me to know what is best for them both." Arielle would not waver and in that belief, and after a few seconds, Byron gave a grudging nod. She rose on her tiptoes to kiss him. "Thank you. You will not be sorry."

  Byron waited on the back steps while Arielle reentered the house, but he was not at all certain he had made the best choice. He could at least pray for Falcon, though, and he began that in earnest.

  With two of the wounded men happily consuming their meals and the third sipping soup at Johanna's urging, Liana felt her work was done for the moment and went out on the front porch for a breath of air. When Christian joined her, she reached out to take his hand. "How is Falcon doing?" she asked. "I haven't had a chance to go upstairs and see him."

  Christian scarcely knew where to begin. "Don't try and see him yet. He's very sick, and—" Overcome with emotion, Christian had to look away.

  "Chris?" Liana squeezed his hand. "He is going to be all right, isn't he?"

  Christian had to swallow hard before answering, and then it was still difficult for him to speak. By blood, he and Falcon were only half brothers, but Alanna had been the only mother Christian had ever known, and she had never treated them differently. His brother meant the world to him, and the possibility he might lose him filled him with dread.

  "I'm going out to the woods with my father to carve masks. He says we need them to perform some Seneca heal-

  ing ritual. I know it might sound ridiculous to you, but he believes it will help Falcon, and I'm not going to refuse."

  "Masks?" Liana repeated numbly. Christian had as much white blood as Seneca, and even in buckskins resembled a frontiersman rather than a savage. That he would suddenly take up what she considered the strange ways of the Seneca appalled her. "Is that what the two of you would do if Liberty or the boys got sick?"

  Clearly she thought the idea daft, and Christian did not blame her. "I would ask Aunt Arielle to work her magic first, and then, yes, I just might if I believed it would save them."

  "Do you believe it?"

  "That doesn't matter," he replied. "While I always thought my father's tales were exciting, Falcon was sincerely drawn to the Seneca tribe. I believe treating him as a Seneca now will help ease his spirit and that ought to help him recover."

  Liana felt sick and stepped into Christian's arms. He hugged her tight, but she could feel him trembling and knew he was afraid for his brother. She could not understand how masks could cure anything but she would make no attempt to stop him.

  "I'll tell the children how ill their Uncle Falcon is, and we'll all pray for him," she promised. "It would be so awful if we lost him."

  Christian would not allow that thought to enter his mind. He stepped back, then kissed her lightly. "I must go now. Help Arielle and Belle all you can."

  "Yes. Of course I will." Liana remained on the porch as he started off down the path toward the stable. She truly believed that death was as natural a part of life as birth, but she could not accept the fact that Falcon might not live longer than twenty-two years. He was as dear to her as her own brothers, and forcing herself to be brave for his sake,

  she went back inside to do whatever she could to ease his pain.

  Belle squeezed out the sponge and dripped water down Falcon's chest. He was leaning back, slumped low, his eyes closed as she scrubbed him clean with the tender touch she would use to bathe a baby. He had lost so much weight on the journey home she could see his ribs cl
early. She couldn't bear to look at his leg, and was grateful the soap bubbles floating on the water kept her from having to. She had washed his hair first, and like a hank of ebony silk it hung down over the rolled edge of the big copper tub. She had not thought to snip off a lock of his hair before now, and this seemed a poor time to ask for a memento.

  "Do you feel any better?" she asked.

  Falcon had swallowed two cups of comfrey tea before getting into the tub, and he was still debating whether or not he ought to drink some brandy. He felt lazy, or perhaps merely weak, and murmured a vague response. He was afraid reopening his wound would hurt worse than getting shot, and while he wanted to get the ordeal over with, he was hoping Arielle would not return to his room for hours.

  "I wish you could get in here with me," he said.

  His smile was sad rather than seductive, but Belle played along. "I was surprised when Mother allowed me to stay with you, so let's not abuse the privilege."

  Falcon caught her hand. He was so tired, he didn't think he could stay awake much longer. "Maybe I ought to get out now. Can you find someone to help me? I don't want to fall and break my one good leg."

  Belle was amazed he felt up to teasing her. "I love you very, very much."

  The wistfulness of her tone broke Falcon's heart, and he gave her the most loving kiss he could. "I love you more."

  When he closed his eyes, Belle rose and hurried to find

  help. Her father was the first man she found and he came back upstairs with her. Belle held the towel, and Byron bent down to scoop Falcon out of the tub. She quickly wrapped the towel around his waist so he would be covered when Byron laid him on the bed.

  "What do you want to do about the brandy?" Belle asked Falcon.

  Falcon could already feel the agonizing pressure as his aunt dragged the tip of a blade over his festering wound, making him gag. "I'm afraid I'm going to be sick whatever I do, but I need something and if brandy is all we have, it will have to do."

  Byron was touched by the depth of love mirrored in their eyes. "Is there anything else you need, Falcon, or anyone you'd like to see?"

  "No," Falcon whispered. "I don't feel up to entertaining visitors."

  Byron had been hoping he would ask for a priest to marry them, but because he had promised his wife not to bring up the subject, he did not. "Your father and Christian have gone to make masks for some ceremony. Perhaps you're familiar with what they intend to do."

  "False Face Society masks?" Falcon asked.

  "Yes. That's what Hunter called them."

  Falcon started to laugh, but caught himself before the effort increased his pain. "That's good. I always wanted to see that."

  Belle looked astonished, but Byron sent her a warning glance and she didn't question Hunter's intentions. "I'll bring you the brandy, and I may get good and drunk with you. In fact, Arielle is the only one who has to stay sober." He squeezed Falcon's upper arm, and then, determined to show the same courage as the injured brave, he left to fetch his finest brandy.

  Belle picked up another towel to dry Falcon's hair, then sat down beside him again. She took his hand and hoped

  with all her heart that he would live to see his child born. She could not tell him now that he would be a father next spring, but she painted that picture in her mind. She could see the three of them so clearly, laughing with delight. A son would be a great blessing, or a pretty daughter like Christian's Liberty. When the child had been conceived in such glorious love, she knew he, or she, would be as special as his father.

  "I've always been so proud of you," she blurted out suddenly.

  Falcon thought the comment odd, but gave her a lopsided grin. He loved her so dearly that for a few moments at least, he didn't feel any pain.

  There were woods on the Barclays' land, and with time precious, Hunter dared take Christian no farther. They left their horses to graze and searched for suitable willow and basswood trees. "The mask has to be carved from the living tree," Hunter explained, "and then when it is nearly finished, we'll cut it free of the trunk."

  "I'm glad you explained the masks can be ugly," Christian replied, "because other than toy animals for our boys, I've never done much carving."

  "Not simply ugly," Hunter countered. "They must be hideous, with the features twisted into fearsome scowls."

  "What about big noses, or jutting lips?"

  "Yes! Whatever strikes you. Men usually choose images they have seen in dreams, but we have no time to wait for that. We'll cut our horses' tails for hair and use berry juice for stain. Here, this is a good tree." Hunter slapped the willow. "Begin here. Measure your own face so it will fit you, and hurry. There isn't much time."

  "Let's build a fire and work all night."

  Hunter nodded and continued searching for a nearby tree for his own mask. He had left the land of the Seneca more

  than thirty years ago, and had little to do with the tribe since, but his childhood memories of the False Face Society were still vivid. They had come to his mother's longhouse whenever someone was sick. If the ailing person were male, once cured, he would then join the society and help to heal the next person to fall ill. Hunter wished now that he could remember whether or not everyone had been saved, but he thought most had.

  A slanting ray of bright sunlight fell across the next tree, and taking it as a good omen, he began to whittle away the bark to expose the tender wood underneath. He would start with a crude oval shape, and trust a design to grow in his mind as he worked. "Big eyes," he called to Christian, "and long, drooping tongues. Carve whatever you please."

  "Nasty scars and a forest of warts!" Christian shouted back.

  "Yes! Let's see which of us can carve the most frightening mask."

  Christian was already so frightened that his hands shook as he peeled away the bark. "I'm already afraid," he mumbled under his breath. He and Falcon had fought together when the war had begun, and no man had ever had a finer comrade-at-arms. He had to stop to wipe the tears from his eyes, then decided they did not matter. He did not need to see clearly to carve, and silently repeating the prayers his mother had taught him as a child, he fashioned a grotesque mask to save his brother.

  Etienne glanced back toward his open door and saw there were indeed clothes hanging on the doorknob, but with Dominique so terribly unhappy, he did not believe he should excuse himself to dress. At least he was a good deal cleaner than he had been earlier, even if he still lacked a shirt. He slipped his arm around her waist to encourage her to rest her head on his shoulder and she melted against him so easily he cursed himself for not having been more understanding the last time she had been in his arms.

  "It is all right, cherie. Weep if you must. I will sit here with you all night if you need me."

  Etienne's skin was warm, and held the comforting scent of Arielle Barclay's bayberry soap. Dominique was ashamed of herself for breaking down, but she had simply exhausted her strength. "I'm so sorry," she breathed against his bare chest. She was getting him all wet with her tears, but couldn't seem to stop.

  Etienne removed her cap, and then her combs to free her hair. He ran his fingers through her curls and massaged her neck lightly. He had never met such a fascinating woman. She had such polished elegance and pride, and yet an occasional rip in that lovely fagade revealed the depth of her sorrow. For an instant he wished she might one day weep for him with such intensity, and in the next breath swore he would never cause her such agonizing pain.

  He heard the people on the floor below talking in hushed whispers, but could not catch their words. He had brought four ailing men into the house, so he could understand why everyone was so busy, but he still did not understand what had upset Dominique so badly she could not explain. Then a truly horrible possibility occurred to him.

  If the tormented scream that had pierced his dreams had been real, then the man who had called out had to have been Falcon. He grabbed Dominique's arms and shook her. "What's happened to Falcon?" he cried. "Have they cut off his le
g?"

  Etienne looked every bit as terrified as Dominique felt, but she quickly shook her head to reassure him. She wiped her cheeks with her fingertips and tried to catch enough breath to speak, but it was difficult to know what she could tell him that would not merely increase his fright.

  "Did you hear him scream? We thought he was too drunk to feel anything, but my mother had to reopen his wound before applying a poultice, and apparently nothing could have blocked such excruciating pain. He passed out, which saved him from feeling most of it, but he's so very sick, he may never awaken."

  Etienne searched her face for some glimmer of hope, but saw only despair etched upon her delicate features. He released her and sat back. "This is all my fault," he groaned. "I didn't know what to do for him. If only I had—"

  "No one blames you, Etienne." Dominique wrapped her arms across her midriff and leaned forward. "You brought him home and we're grateful."

  She did not look grateful, and Etienne doubted anyone else would thank him, either. Filled with remorse, he would have gotten up, walked out of the house, and gone back to North Carolina, but he could not leave without knowing whether Falcon survived. "I have failed you again," he murmured softly.

  "What?" Dominique knew she could not possibly have heard what she thought she had. There was nothing between them, so how could he have failed her? Etienne shook his head, refusing to repeat his comment, but she doubted she had misinterpreted his remark. Now he was as thoroughly depressed as she, and she could not bear to think she was simply spreading her pain.

  She took his hand and squeezed hard. "Why don't you get dressed and we'll have something to eat."

  "I could not eat," Etienne swore.

  "I don't feel like eating either but if we don't, we'll be too tired to help later when we might really be needed.

  Change your clothes and come downstairs with me. There's soup and freshly baked bread ready, and you can have anything else you'd like."