She turned away from the good-natured teasing that passed between them. It was obvious to her that Siipu loved Talon dearly and that he felt the same about her. A part of her wanted to join in their banter, but she couldn’t. Her own emotions were too confused for her to feel at ease with them.
She wondered if Talon remembered the kiss they had shared. He had said nothing since he’d risen from his sickbed. He no longer treated her as though she was his prisoner, but neither did he behave in an overly familiar manner. It was almost as though they were polite strangers, brought together by circumstances—strangers who would never meet again once they left this place.
She had wanted him to recover; she’d prayed for it. She’d admitted to herself and to him that she cared for him. But now . . . Now, she did not know where her brazen revelation would lead. Or if she really wanted it to . . .
Had she lost all sense of perspective? It was difficult to remember that this laughing man was the same painted savage who’d burned her farm and nearly killed her and her brother. He’d seemed so violent, so lacking in compassion. Now, she wasn’t sure who Talon was or who she was. The only thing she knew for certain was that she had cut all ties to Simon Brandt. She could never be a wife to him again, no matter the cost to her safety or to her immortal soul.
“Becca.”
Talon’s voice and his hand on her shoulder startled her from her reverie. Surprised, she spun around—right into the circle of his arms.
“Siipu has made fresh corn cakes,” he said. “She invited you to come and eat.” His eyes locked with hers, and she knew that Siipu’s meal was the farthest thing from his mind.
She was standing very close to him, so close that it was hard to breathe. “Her corn cakes are . . . are . . .” She trembled inwardly. Any second and he would kiss her again, she knew it.
And then the instant passed and he stepped back. She might have believed she’d imagined his intention, but a hint of yearning flickered across those inscrutable dark eyes, and the taut, bronze skin over his cheekbones took on a darker hue of tan.
“Tomorrow I go to find Simon Brandt,” he said brusquely. “I leave you here with my sister. You will be safe here.”
“Simon . . . .” she stammered. “But where—how? How do you know that he—”
“Siipu has seen him in the coals of her cooking fire,” he replied. “He comes hunting his woman, and he does not hunt alone.”
“Seen him in the coals of her fire?” Rebecca scoffed, hiding the fear that curled in her chest. “That’s ridiculous. You’re an educated man, you know that’s ridiculous.”
He shrugged.
“It’s witchcraft.”
A ghost of a smile played across his thin lips—lips that she had tasted and wanted desperately to taste again.
“Talon,” she pleaded. “You can’t believe it.”
“Eighteen centuries have passed since a woman who had never known a man gave birth to your king in a stable. A man who you believe died under torture and came to life again. Eighteen centuries, Becca. You believe, do you not?”
“The death and resurrection of Jesus? Of course. It is the foundation of my faith.”
“Eighteen centuries, my Becca, only eighteen. Hardly time for a river to change its course. My people have hunted these forests for two hundred centuries, twenty thousand years. We have danced our dances and sung our songs of power. We have watched the eternal dance of the sun and her sister the moon. We are as much a part of this land as the trees and the grass.”
Confused, she shook her head. “What does that have to do with witchcraft?”
“What you call witchcraft, we call wisdom.” He smiled at her. “I do not think such things are evil,” he said gently. “And I do not know why those that the Great Spirit has blessed see what others do not see. I only know that Siipu sees true, and that Simon Brandt comes with bloody hands to the land of the Shawnee and the Delaware. And I know that this one will stand between him and the Ohio so long as blood runs in my veins.”
“And you expect me to stay here as your sister’s prisoner?”
“As her honored guest.” His eyes filled with warmth.
“While you go and try and kill my husband?”
“Becca.” His tone hardened. “I do not know what is between you and Simon Brandt, but I know you. You are not a woman to deceive your husband by smiling at him and looking with doe eyes at another. He is not worthy of you. If I kill him, you will be the better for it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand you. What are you trying to say?”
“There is no love between you and him.”
“No, there isn’t,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I want him dead.”
“Him dead, or me. Will you choose?”
She winced. “That’s unfair.”
His fingertips brushed her chin in a motion that might have been a caress. “If my father’s life did not hang in the balance, it might be different.”
She thrilled to his touch even as his meaning came clear. “You mean to give me back to Simon?”
“If I must.”
“If you can’t kill him.”
“Ahikta—it is so.”
“And if he kills you—what happens to me?”
“I have spoken to my sister. You will still be traded for our father’s life. No harm will come to you. Another will see you back to the English settlement.”
“And if . . .” The words stuck in the back of her throat. If I didn’t want to go back, she wanted to scream at him. What if I wanted to stay with you?
“There is no if,” he said firmly. “You are my enemy’s wife. We will both do what is demanded of us.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I suppose we must.” But she turned away from him so that he couldn’t see the tears welling up in her eyes.
Talon shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted into the rising sun. It was just breaking dawn, ten days from the afternoon he’d fought with the great brown bear. He was still stiff, and he’d not regained all his strength, but there was no more time to waste warming himself by Siipu’s fire.
Simon Brandt was very near—he felt it in his bones. He’d seen deer, elk, and wolves since he’d left his sister’s longhouse, but no sign of humans, red or white. The forest stretched around him, tall and deep, throbbing with its own life force. The weather had favored him; it was cold, but clear. No more snow had fallen. It was easier to track a man or an animal in snow, but it was also easier to be tracked.
Siipu had said she saw many long rifles with Simon Brandt. Militia. They were tougher opponents than the stupid English soldiers who marched abreast in straight lines and wore bright red coats. He wondered how long it would take the British generals to realize that their armies, with their big guns that had to be dragged by oxen, were useless in the wilderness. They could destroy a French fort or blow up Indian villages, but even children could run away and hide from an unwieldy procession of wagons, carts, horses, and soldiers, which moved at a cow’s pace.
When the English cut roads through the woods, those wide trails became graves. When the British slowed to drive horse-drawn vehicles across creeks and rivers, they were easy targets for any half-grown Indian boy to pick off from the safety of the trees. Muskets roared like thunder, but an arrow sped with the silence of a plunging hawk.
The long rifles had learned this lesson. Many were trackers and marksmen to match the Indians they hunted. The militia traveled light; they could strike hard and move fast. Simon Brandt’s followers were among the best of the white scouts, and Simon Brandt led them because he was as woods-wise and brave as any Huron.
Talon’s hate for Becca’s husband glowed white-hot in his breast, but he did not underestimate him. “He is a worthy opponent,” he murmured. “And if the spirits are against me, my scalp will hang at his belt.”
He grinned, deciding that he’d have to give the spirits a little assistance. Because if Simon Brandt died, then his woman would be free to choose an
other man.
Ruthlessly, he pushed such foolish thoughts out of his mind. A war chief who put his own wants ahead of his people was unfit. The best captains were those who had no family. A man who cared only for his tribe would not hesitate to put himself into danger. No, he needed no woman to tug at his heart and make him soft.
And the last thing he needed was a white woman with sky blue eyes who made his blood run hot when he thought of her . . .
Forget her, he told himself. Think only of your father’s life, and of Simon Brandt, who comes with his hunting pack to invade Shawnee land. Keep your mind empty of all things that will interfere with your mission. Kill Simon Brandt, and bring your father home.
If the militia was destroyed, it would buy precious time for his people, and it might hold back the steady press of settlers for a few more years. In those years, the French king might prevail. A French presence in Indian country would be bitter, but not so disastrous as the English. The French came to trade for furs. The English wanted to cut down the forest and chop the earth into small squares. A reasonable man could deal with the French, but no one could make sense of the English.
Cautiously, Talon worked his way up a ridge that overlooked a rock-strewn, fast-running creek. The water was deep and crusted with ice, too dangerous to travel by boat. Any adult crossing would be wet to the chest—unless he chose the spot that lay directly below Talon’s vantage point. Here, scattered rocks jutted out of the creek to form a natural bridge that an agile man might traverse.
Talon reached the highest point and crawled forward on his hands and knees, taking care not to get dirt in the barrel of his rifle. When he was certain he could see without being seen, he dropped flat on his belly to wait.
The sun moved overhead. A rock dug into Talon’s knee, and he shifted slightly to avoid it. A pair of ducks flew overhead. The sheltered hiding place was out of the wind; the sun’s rays beat into his fur cloak. The urge to doze off teased, but he refused to give in to it. He began to count the rocks in the creek, beginning with the bend to the south and working upstream.
He had counted the rocks three times when a mouse with an acorn in his mouth scurried by. Bright round eyes stared at him in curiosity as the little rodent came within inches of his hand. Minutes later, the mouse was back, pausing to scratch an itchy spot with a back paw, preen long whiskers, and groom his fur before scampering off again.
The cawing of crows snapped Talon into instant readiness. He waited, straining his ears for some sound other than the tumbling rush of water. Then the bushes parted on the far side of the creek and a painted face appeared. Talon recognized the man as Miami by the quill-work on his vest.
The Indian stopped, looked both ways, and took several steps out to the edge of the stream. Then he cupped his mouth and gave an imitation of the crow call Talon had heard earlier.
Talon chuckled silently. Miami crows must speak differently from Shawnee crows, he thought. That caw wouldn’t fool an old woman.
A few minutes later, a tall, rangy white man in a wide-brimmed leather hat and a fringed buckskin hunting shirt moved out of the trees. A powder horn and bag hung over one shoulder; he carried a long rifle in his hand. When he turned to beckon to his comrades, Talon got a good look at his face.
Simon Brandt.
Talon nodded. Siipu had been right as usual. Now to see how many more wolves hunted in Brandt’s pack.
One after another, the militia men melted into the clearing at the stream bank. Eight, nine—two more, no three. Thirteen, counting the Miami. There would be rear guard as well. If Talon knew Brandt, there would be scouts on either side of the main party, as well as one or two far ahead. He’d seen no sign, but still—
Talon’s ears caught the ominous sound of a hammer being cocked, and his blood went cold. He rolled over onto his back and threw up his rifle to protect his head—and stared into the gaping muzzle of a Brown Bess musket.
Chapter 14
Talon looked up at the man holding the musket and gave a low exclamation of relief.
His friend, Fox, grinned. “You’re dead,” he said.
“Fox!” Talon wiggled backward until overhanging evergreens concealed his movements from anyone watching on the creek bank below and got to his feet. To his shame, Counts His Scalps was standing a few yards away with a smirk on his handsome face.
“It isn’t like you to be so foolish,” Counts admonished. “What happened to you? You look like you lost a wrestling match with a bear.”
“I won one.” Talon dusted the sand off his rifle barrel. “Didn’t I tell you to stay with the village?”
Fox chuckled. “And if we had? Your hair would have been dangling from Simon Brandt’s trophy belt.”
“We came up on you as easily as if you were a blind buffalo,” Counts said.
“Perhaps,” Fox said softly, “perhaps not. If we were white, he would have smelled us.”
The cedar boughs parted and Osage Killer appeared. His face was streaked with black and yellow slashes of paint, and his heavy-lidded eyes were hard. He nodded in greeting to Talon, then offered Counts a hint of a smile. “Do not be so hard on our war chief,” he said. “A man’s guardian spirits do not warn him against his friends—only his enemies.”
“How many others are here?” Talon asked. His pride had taken a blow and he wished no more talk about his carelessness. In truth, he should have sensed Fox sneaking up on him, but he hadn’t. Maybe he was getting old, or maybe the white woman had stolen some of his power. He looked from one man to the other. “Just you three?”
“Just us,” Fox replied. “But there are only fifteen of them.”
“Less than four apiece,” Counts said.
Talon frowned. “I’m glad to have you with me, but—”
Counts shook his head. “This man dreamed a dream.”
“Your sister is a powerful witch,” Osage Killer said. “She warned Counts His Scalps of the militia. She showed Counts the face of Simon Brandt.”
“This man had the dream,” Counts interrupted. “This man will tell what he wishes. Others—” He glared at his companion. “Others should hold their tongues until they have a medicine dream.”
“Counts has decided that he is called to become a shaman,” Osage Killer continued.
“Who else heard the witch’s message?” Counts demanded. “Who else saw Simon Brandt? This man knows the seriousness of such a calling. If the spirits wish my life, can I refuse?”
“I’ve told him he’s too old to begin training,” Fox teased. “He would have to grow his hair long like a boy and—”
Talon motioned Fox to silence. “Such a decision comes from a man’s heart,” he said. “If Counts His Scalps is called, it’s not for us to taunt him.”
“So.” Counts lifted his chin and stared off into space. “Even a man’s friends are sometimes jealous of his powers.”
“So Counts had a dream and you came,” Talon said smoothly. “But what of the village? Did you do as I bid you?”
“It’s as you said,” Fox answered with laughing eyes. “We followed your instructions precisely, oh noble war leader. As usual, you were right. The white trader came running. Both he and the French priest brought gifts when none were expected. They talked too loud and laughed when there was nothing to laugh at.”
“And both asked many questions about a flame-haired captive,” Counts added.
“You moved the village?” Talon asked.
Osage Killer nodded. “Across the Ohio. So quickly that not even the crows could follow. We carried the old people and the children. Some went by river, but all went. If the white men come to our village site, they will find only cold ashes and empty houses.”
“The old shaman put a curse on the village place,” Fox said. “Any man who sets foot there will know the wrath of the winter ghosts. So powerful was his spell that he says we will not be able to return to that camp for three years.”
“I helped him to erect the feather barrier,” Counts said proudly. “
He asked for my help.”
“Only because you were treading close on his heels and staring over his shoulder,” Osage Killer said.
“You do not believe in my power? Even after you have seen the proof?” Counts asked. “My dream was strong. The witch knew of my calling, and the old shaman knows.”
“Oh, I believe in your calling,” Osage Killer said with a smile. “I believe. But I also know that you take great satisfaction in your gift. You were never a modest man.”
“Peace,” Talon said. “It is true that Counts has always been first to cry his deeds in battle, but it is also true that his accomplishments are many and great.” He clasped Counts’ hand. “If you are called to be a shaman, I don’t doubt you’ll be a strong one. And I will not hesitate to seek your advice.”
Counts smiled and a genuine warmth spread across his face. “Perhaps I have misjudged you, Talon. You and I think more alike than I knew. Perhaps . . .”
Osage Killer’s features hardened.
Talon shook his head. “I value you as I value few men, Counts His Scalps, but my path is not yours. Friends and blood brothers we may be, nothing more. My tastes run elsewhere.”
Counts scoffed. “Women.”
Talon shrugged. “I have always liked them.”
Counts grinned. “It is your loss.” He glanced sideways at Osage Killer. “You know I only speak in jest, ki-te-hi. Our leader has his qualities, but you and I are pledged until death.”
“Will we stand here breaking wind and jawing like old men while the enemy surrounds us?” Fox demanded. “There is a time for jests and a time for war.”
“You are right,” Talon agreed. His eyes met Counts’ and the brave nodded. Talon crouched down, brushed away the leaves, and began to draw on the earth with a twig. Fox, you circle here. Counts, you and Osage Killer . . .” Carefully, he began to instruct them on a plan of attack. His man gathered close around him in silence, their differences forgotten, as Simon Brandt and his militia began to cross the rocky creek far below.
Rebecca stuffed food into a skin bag, threw a fur robe over the French military jacket, and left the wigwam. Talon’s sister had been gone for more than an hour. If she followed her usual pattern, she wouldn’t be home until dusk. Rebecca didn’t know what Siipu did in the woods all day alone and she didn’t care. She had chosen this morning to make her escape.
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