He made a sound of amusement. “You have freed me, Sweet Water. Should a man complain because you didn’t lead a Shawnee war party here?”
“I brought you this hat,” she explained, sticking it on his head. “And a long cloak.” He winced as she wrapped the garment around his shoulders and the rough wool fibers grated against his lacerated back.
His breathing was loud and labored in the mist. “Are you all right?” she asked, then felt her face go hot at her own foolishness. Of course, he wasn’t all right. They were both in terrible danger.
Talon’s movements were slow and obviously painful. “I’ll be all right if I can wash the stink of this Englishmanake town off me,” he answered.
“There’s truth. You smell like a dead goat.” She suddenly realized that she’d never seen him on a horse. “Can you ride? If you can’t, I—”
“I can ride, Meshepeshe.”
Meshepeshe. Lioness. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t care what he smelled like. She wanted to throw her arms around him, to cover his face with kisses, but this wasn’t the time or the place. “Talon . . .” she began huskily, “I thought . . . I thought you were dead.”
“Counts His Scalps lives as well. He escaped. I don’t know if he was wounded.”
“They never told me that you were alive.”
“A bullet grazed my skull. I was taken captive and turned over to British soldiers. I’ve been in a cell here in Philadelphia for weeks.”
“I didn’t know,” she repeated. All the time she’d believed him dead and wanted to die herself . . . all those wasted tears . . . “Siipu saved my life at the cost of her own. I’m so sorry she had to die.”
“My sister—the one whose name we do not say,” he corrected her gently, “has the spirit of Osage Killer to guide her across the river to our father’s lodge.”
The effort it took for him to mount and help her up behind him brought tears to her eyes, but she would not break down now. She had too much pride to let him see her cry tonight.
“This man believed you dead as well.”
“I’m not.”
He chuckled. “You mean a ghost did not save this man from the torture stake?”
“Not a ghost, but not Rebecca Brandt anymore, either.”
“This one knew that. But you have the courage of that sky-eyed Irish woman.”
“I mean to go with you, Talon,” she warned him. “Wherever you go, from this day forth. So long as I live, I will follow you.”
“N’mamentschi. My heart rejoices.”
“And mine,” she whispered.
“We will be married.”
She shook her head. “I can’t, not as long as Simon lives. And if I pledge my life to you, I want an end to the bloodshed.”
“You ask more than this man can give. If my people need—”
“Not all bloodshed,” she said. “Just Simon’s blood. I couldn’t sleep at night knowing that I bought my happiness with my husband’s death. Will you give me that, Talon?”
“You will not be my wife?”
“Not will not, cannot. It is my faith, Talon. I can live with you in glorious sin, but I can’t marry.”
“Another was his wife, not you, not the Shawnee woman, Sweet Water.”
“You may pretend that, Talon. You may even believe it, but I’m not that much Indian.”
“So.” He gave a sound of finality. “Do you still care for Simon Brandt?”
“No. But I won’t dirty my soul with hating him. There’s been enough hate. Let someone else kill him—God knows he deserves a painful death and a quick trip to hell.”
“You ask me to break the vow I made on my mother’s grave?”
“If you love me, then—”
“We will live together, Sweet Water. In my heart, you will be my wife.”
“And in my heart, you will be my husband,” she promised.
He exhaled softly. “Do you know the way out of this city?”
“Straight west.”
He looked up at the sky. “Two hours before dawn.”
“Will it be enough?”
“I don’t know.” He turned the animal’s head away from the square and dug his heels into the gelding’s sides. The horse started forward, and Talon reined him to a trot. “We must go quietly,” he said. “There will be time enough for running later.”
I hope, Rebecca thought.
They had gone no more than a block when muskets roared behind them. Seconds later came the urgent tattoo of a military drum. “The soldiers,” she cried. “They’ve found out you escaped.”
His only reply was to slap the horse’s neck. The animal leaped forward, his hooves clattering over the damp cobblestones as he broke into a hard canter. Rebecca clutched tightly to Talon’s waist, closed her eyes, and began to pray.
Chapter 26
By sunup, the gelding was winded. Foam sprayed from his mouth, and his neck and sides were streaked with sweat. So far, by changing direction again and again, by cutting through alleys and across private yards, Talon and Rebecca had escaped capture by the king’s soldiers and the civilian authorities.
They were no longer riding through the town, but had entered an area of small farms and tradesmen’s homes and places of business. Even at a trot, it was clear to Rebecca that the horse she’d stolen from the Quakers wouldn’t be able to carry them much farther. And on foot, with Talon still wearing wrist manacles—how long could they stay ahead of the searchers?
Talon had a musket and she had a pistol, but she’d had enough of killing and violence. She wanted only to lose their pursuers in the deep woods. Unfortunately, she knew that many miles of farmland lay between them and the all-encompassing forests.
The sounds of a blacksmith’s hammer ringing on steel brought them to a halt. “Listen,” Rebecca said. Through the gray dawn, she could make out a crossroads, several modest houses, and what looked like a forge. “Where there’s a blacksmith, there are hammers and chisels to break your irons. “Hmmp.” Talon’s back muscles tensed. “This man will go to the smith and say ‘Cut these chains for me.’ And then we will have to kill him or have him summon the soldiers.”
“You have to get free of these manacles,” she argued.
“Even if we tie him up as we did the redcoat, he will tell them we passed this way. This one’s Indian face will hang you.”
She knew he was right. Even in the hat and cloak, he’d not fool a blind man. And any who saw him would raise a hand against them. Disappointed, she made no protest when he urged their mount off the road and into an orchard.
They’d ridden no more than half a mile, keeping to the back lanes and outcropping of trees, when she smelled wood smoke where there was no sign of a farmhouse. Talon reined in the gelding and motioned for her to slide down. He dismounted, and as he did, he turned toward her. In the gathering light of morning, she saw that his face was flushed with fever.
“Stay here,” he ordered. “I will see who camps ahead in the gully.”
“How do you know it’s a camp? It may be a poor man’s hut or—”
“Wait.”
She held the horse’s head while he moved away and vanished in the thicket. She stood shivering in the cool air. She was hungry, her head hurt, and both legs were chafed to the thigh from riding astride behind the saddle. She leaned against the tired animal, giving him enough rein to crop the green sprigs of grass that sprang from winter’s dry foliage.
Then she heard a twig snap behind her. Frightened, she spun around, pistol in hand, and looked into the eyes of a man as startled as she was.
He was thin and olive skinned, his hair as dark as Talon’s. His linen breeches and patched shirt had seen many years of use. His shoes were thick soled and clumsy, home stitched, reminding her of the footwear the poor wore in Ireland.
In his right hand the stranger carried a pair of rabbits, in his left he held a rope snare. “Do not shoot,” he said in heavily accented English. “You can have the hares.”
&nbs
p; Rebecca smiled and lowered the weapon. “You’re Irish,” she said. And she followed this with a secret password she had learned from the tinkers who camped every summer on her father’s land in Ireland.
The poacher’s eyes widened in surprise.
She repeated the word, and he broke into a gap-toothed grin and took a few steps in her direction. The horse twitched his ears and nickered softly as Talon stepped out of the trees.
Instantly, both men tensed. Before Talon could frighten the tinker further, she motioned to Talon. “It’s all right. This man is my countryman. The Irish call them the travelers. Have you heard of gypsies?”
The tinker frowned.
“The English call them gypsies, but they are not Rom,” she said firmly. “He is a white smith, a worker in copper and tin.” She glanced back at the newcomer. “I am Rebecca, and this is Talon. What is your name?”
“I am Keir the Lefthanded,” he said in Gaelic.
Rebecca smiled at Talon’s puzzled expression. “This time I’m the one who must do the translating,” she said.
“Do you know this man?” Talon demanded.
“I know his tribe. They were kind to me when I was a child.” She turned back to the smith. “We are in grave danger,” she explained in the old Irish tongue.
Keir’s bright gaze flicked over Talon, lingering for a few seconds on the manacles that bound the Shawnee’s wrists together. The Irishman nodded and raised one bushy eyebrow expectantly.
“British soldiers are after us,” Rebecca continued. “My friend is hurt, and we need someplace to hide. Can you help us?”
“I have a poor wagon,” he answered. “You would be welcome there and at my woman’s cook pot. But . . .” He shrugged. “One of my horses has come up lame. We have camped here longer than is prudent.”
“Which direction does the wind take you?” she asked.
“Which direction do you need to travel?” he replied.
She smiled. “West.”
He smiled. “And that is exactly the way we intended to go . . . before my old mare picked up a stone in her shoe and—”
Talon moved to Rebecca’s side. “What is he saying?”
“Keir says that we are welcome at their fire.” She turned her attention to the traveler once more. “Do you have the tools to remove the irons from my friend?”
“I would be a poor coppersmith if I did not.”
“We bring danger with us,” she warned.
Keir’s smile became a grin. The lines around his eyes crinkled and his face beamed. “Danger adds salt to a hare stew.”
“What are you saying?” Talon insisted.
She touched his arm lightly. “It’s all right,” she soothed. “I have just traded the Quaker’s gelding for a ride in this man’s wagon.”
“Is he to be trusted?”
She glanced back at the smith. “My friend wants to know if you can be trusted.”
Keir laughed. “Within reason, my lady. Within reason.”
For three days, Talon lay flat on his stomach as the traveler’s wagon rolled over the Pennsylvania roads. Keir’s wife, Moya, made a paste of oak bark, moss, and honey to apply to Talon’s wounds. For his fever, she made a tea of thistle and willow catkins.
The interior of the vehicle was small, packed tightly with household goods, Keir’s tools and forge, and four black-eyed children. But when British troops stopped the family to inquire of a savage and a white woman, no one looked inside the wagon. And no one connected the bay gelding, with the newly cropped mane and tail and the damp white spot on his forehead, with the stolen Flanders horse.
On the fourth day, Talon had recovered enough to sit up, but Rebecca still would not hear of his leaving the safety of their hiding place. Mile by mile, Philadelphia was left farther behind, and the farms became scattered, the areas of virgin forest larger.
By the end of the week, Keir’s wagon had come nearly fifty miles. That night, when he unhitched the team and Moya built a campfire, Talon and Rebecca repeated their gratitude and bid them farewell.
“I wish I had more to give you,” Rebecca said to the plump, green-eyed wife.
“Your gift of the horse is more than gracious,” Moya replied. “But keep a place at your cook pot for travelers.”
“We will,” Rebecca promised. She hugged each child in turn and shook Keir’s hand for the second time.
“Come,” Talon said, clearly impatient to put more distance between them and the white settlements. “Simon Brandt will not give up the hunt so easily. We must go from this place.”
There were more good-byes, and Moya gave Rebecca a bundle of food for the journey. Then Rebecca and Talon set out, moving west through the forest, walking so swirftly that in an hour’s time she suffered a stitch in her side.
“I’m not used to this,” she complained. She was wearing a German woman’s shoes, too wide and too long, and stiff instead of soft like moccasins. She would be blistered by dawn, but there was no help for it. She knew Talon was right. Sore feet or not, there would be no safety for either of them until they reached Indian country.
For the next week, they continued to walk by night and sleep during the day. They survived on bird eggs, Moya’s bread and cheese, and fish that Talon caught with his hands.
“This man will not risk a shot,” he said. “You must go hungry, and your bones already stick through your skin.”
“They do not,” she protested. She was still thin, it was true, but she was gaining in strength every day. With Talon beside her, she knew she could keep going as far as they needed, even to the shore of the great salt sea that lay on the far side of the continent.
When they rested, she curled in Talon’s arms, her head on his chest, their fingers entwined. And she slept peacefully, content to feel his heart beating . . . his breath warm on her cheek.
But as the days passed, she began to wonder why the man to whom she had given all made no attempt to consummate their love. “Don’t you find me attractive?” she asked one morning when he’d turned his face aside from her kiss. “Is something wrong between us?”
He chuckled and captured her hand, moving it down to clasp the straining heat of his swollen manhood. “There is the proof of this one’s desire for you,” he whispered, “a desire that will never fade so long as we both draw breath.”
“But . . . if you still . . .” She broke off as her cheeks grew warm. “Why can’t we . . .”
“When this man takes you in that way,” he explained huskily, “his eyes see only your fox-colored hair, and his ears hear only your cries of pleasure. He smells only your scent, and tastes only your totush. Such a man cannot protect the thing he loves most, when his mishkwe rules his head.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I want you.”
“And this one wants you,” he assured her. “But we must wait until it is safe. Would you have me face Simon Brandt’s musket with only cin gwe ah in my hand?”
She made a sound of derision. “By the time you stop looking over your shoulder for Simon, I’ll be too old to appreciate your cin gwe ah.”
“You will never be that old,” he teased. “If you are, this man may take a second wife to help you with your duties.”
“Just try it,” she threatened.
Rebecca’s German shoes had been worn to shreds when they turned south and stopped to rest for several days in the isolated cabin of a Christian Lenape family. The mother in the household was a clan sister to Talon’s aunt and thus to Rebecca.
Joseph Crow had taken an English name and traded his bow for a plow. The small homestead boasted several goats, a horse, and real furniture. Both Joseph and his wife, Ruth, made them welcome. Ruth found a complete change of clothing for Rebecca, since the garments the Germans had given her were much the worse for wear. Rebecca slid between clean linen sheets and slept the entire afternoon and night, not waking until the sun was high the following morning.
Childless and separated from many of their relatives by the new way of life
they’d accepted, the Crows were starved for company. Ruth stuffed Rebecca with fresh peas and corn pudding and insisted on making her a new pair of moccasins. They had heard nothing of Simon Brandt or a search for Talon and Rebecca. They promised to tell nothing if anyone did come by to ask.
“Don’t expect me to milk goats and plant turnips,” Talon warned when he and Rebecca left the Crows’ clearing.
She gazed back at the small, neat cabin with longing. “Those walls and that roof would be warm in winter,” she said.
“You can stay with them,” he said. “Ruth would have you gladly.”
She shook her head. “No chance,” she replied, quickening her step to match his. “You aren’t getting rid of me so easily.
It was May when they crossed the Ohio River, far south of where Rebecca had been earlier. They had no canoe, so Talon swam, pushing her and their few belongings over on a log. In the afternoon, they met two hunters. One was Shawnee, the other a Menominee from the Big Lake Country. The Shawnee was not from Talon’s band, but he had heard of Talon, and he eagerly shared news of the people.
“They have moved their camp farther south,” he said. “Near the Falls. The council smoked a pipe with the elders of Three Tree’s Miami. The hunting was good this winter. A good year for deer. We have been hunting bear.”
“Sweet Water and I have had our fill of bear,” Talon replied. And then he asked the Menominee for news of her brother. “A white boy, half-grown, with Indian hair and eyes. He travels with one known as The Stranger. Have you heard of them?”
Later, when the men had called their dogs and moved on, Talon shared what he had learned with Rebecca. “The Menominee, Wheeling Hawk, says that he did not see the boy, but he has heard of such a man and boy. They wintered in a village near his and took many beaver. He thought it must be them because the man’s tribe lies far west across the great prairie. He told wondrous tales of bison, herds so large that they take five days to pass by. And of mountains so high that they make ours look like the curves of a woman’s belly.”
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