The Captive Heart

by Griep, Michelle;

  “I’ll take it. And I’ll need more lead for shot.” He slid his gaze from the pistol to Renner. “Be back for it in an hour.”

  Behind him, boot steps thudded up the stairs and crossed the threshold.

  “Thought I heard you rode into town.” Tobacco splatted against wooden planks, less offensive than the high-pitched voice. “Your new wife giving you trouble already?”

  Turning, Samuel raised the pistol, sighting McDivitt’s chest with the muzzle. The man’s nostrils flared. Good. Let him think the thing was loaded.

  “Good morning to you as well, McDivitt.”

  Rage simmered beneath McDivitt’s glower, more satisfying than a plate of mutton hash. Samuel lowered the pistol and handed it back to Renner, making sure to keep Angus in a straight line of sight. One never knew when a snake would strike.

  Renner collected the pistol, wafting a fresh stench of sweat as he moved. “You trading today, McDivitt?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Angus nodded. “For information.”

  McDivitt stepped closer. “Seems that Indian friend of yours was spotted heading south, Heath. So I’m wondering … why would an Indian willingly leave the safety of Keowee and run headlong into white territory?”

  The muscles of his neck and shoulders tightened. If McDivitt had Inoli followed all the way to Charles Towne … but no. His brother surely would not fall prey to such a scheme. He shifted his stance, one foot in front of the other, his back to Renner, ready for anything. “Since you’re of a mind to trade, what are you giving for the answer?”

  Angus whipped a skinning knife from inside his coat and dropped to a crouch, the sharp edge of the blade ready to strike. “Your ability to walk out of that door still breathing.”

  Behind Samuel, a hammer cocked. “Take it outside, McDivitt!”

  Samuel smiled. After the past few days, a good fight was exactly what he needed. “Don’t fret, Renner. I got this.”

  McDivitt growled. “Pride goes before a fall, Heath.”

  “You ought to know.” Samuel slashed the man with a cutting sneer. “Since Mariah chose me over you.”

  The blade scythed toward his throat.

  Samuel flung up his right hand, catching McDivitt’s wrist and twisting his arm. He locked the man’s elbow in place and slammed the heel of his other hand against bone. A sickening crack sliced the air, followed by the clatter of metal against wood.

  McDivitt roared, landing a left hook onto Samuel’s jaw.

  He spun with the movement, lest his own bone give way, then slammed McDivitt’s body onto the planks next to his knife. Lungs heaving, he spit out a mouthful of blood and pinned McDivitt with a knee between his shoulder blades. “What Inoli does or doesn’t do is not your concern.”

  Then he stood and stalked toward the door.

  McDivitt’s voice, strained to a fine point, stabbed him in the back.

  “Everything about the backcountry is a regulator’s concern. I’m the law around here, and I’ve got my eye on you, Heath. On you, your Indian friend—and your new wife. You’ll pay for this. You hear me? You’ll pay!”

  Chapter 11

  Eleanor waited until the front door shut, then bolted upright in bed, drawing the counterpane to her throat. Thick darkness filled the small cabin, but the sun would be up soon. She knew. She’d counted each minute of the never-ending night, all of Grace’s sleepy murmurs—and every slight movement of her husband on the pallet across the room. Ever since he’d unloosened her stays, a different kind of constriction squeezed her chest.

  Fear.

  Which was silly, of course. If he’d wanted to take advantage of her, he’d surely have acted upon the urge by now. Even so, she knotted the blanket in her fingers. Lying in the same room with a man, clothed only in her linen shift, was atrocious behaviour. No, worse.

  Her father had been right.

  She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, concealing a cry. To what further depths could her life possibly plummet? A tremble shivered across her shoulders.

  Oh God, protect me.

  Outside, horse’s hooves dug up dirt, fading as she listened. She sat there a long time, wondering if they’d pound back, until eventually, robins and blackbirds sang the morning into being. Grey light slid into the room through the spaces between burlap and window frame.

  And still the man did not return.

  She dropped the blanket and swung her legs over the mattress. Snatching up her stays from the floor, she raced to the table, where the remains of the horrid dinner accused her from the pot. A frown pulled her brow. She’d have to deal with that later. Grabbing a knife, she took care to wipe it well on the man’s unused napkin, then sat without sound and worked steady and sure before Grace awakened.

  It took a fair amount of effort, prayer, and a few grumbles to cut the stays down the front and remove enough of the boning to leave supple fabric to work with. But that was only half the battle. How to bore lace holes? What to use for laces? And how in the world to sew without a needle and thread? This could be an all-day project. Would that Mr. Heath might remain away for that long.

  And if he didn’t?

  Her heart raced. So did she. The entire morning and half the afternoon flew by as she cared for Grace, hunted for needed materials, and worked on fashioning front-opening stays. Her ears hurt from straining to hear approaching hooves, but still Mr. Heath did not return.

  At last, she held the fabric up for inspection. A little raggedy. Definitely not proper, but … She squinted, apprising her tailoring skills. Not spectacular but entirely workable.

  She handed Grace a wooden spoon to play with. “Here you are, little one. It’s not much, I grant you, but I will find something more suitable for you in just a moment.”

  Dashing to the side of the bed, where her gown and petticoats lay in wait, she turned her back to the child and slipped on the new stays. A little puckery where she’d made the holes too wide apart, but good enough. She tied on her petticoat and skirt, and coaxed her gown into place with a few well-placed pins. Glory be! Decency restored.

  She smiled. A small victory, but all wars were won a single battle at a time. Next skirmish, a toy for Grace.

  “Now then, shall we see about a new toy for you?” She whirled, then slapped a hand against her chest. The front door gaped wide open. The wooden spoon lay forgotten on the floor near the threshold.

  “Grace!”

  Eleanor took off at a dead run. Any number of terrifying dangers lurked outside the cabin walls. How could such a small child move so quietly—as silently as her father?

  Kicking aside the spoon, she dashed outside. “Grace!”

  She raced down the stairs.

  Then skidded to a stop before she tumbled over the child.

  Grace sat in the dirt, hardly five paces from the house, laughing up at her. Folding toward the ground, she grabbed two handfuls of soil and bobbed up, raining earth atop her head. The whites of her eyes and flash of her tiny teeth were the only clean spots left.

  A reprimand quivered on Eleanor’s lips, but gave way to a grin when the little girl laughed. Who could be cross with such a cherub—dirty or not? “Well, I suppose this is as good a time as any for you to have a proper bath, hmm?”

  Bath? Ahh. Just saying the word washed over Eleanor from head to toe. Had Biz and Molly been able to scrub away the months of travel at their new homes? The thought stole her grin. Would that she’d been able to live in Newcastle. With no means to bathe out here in the backcountry, would she ever be fully clean again? Swiping back a filthy strand of hair, she set her jaw. Yes. She would—and now was the time to do it with Mr. Heath still gone who-knew-where.

  “Come along, Grace.” She reached out her hand, and filthy fingers wrapped around hers. “We shall have an adventure in the stable, you and I. Perhaps we will find a tub in there, and if not, then we shall suffer the creek, hmm?”

  Grace’s little steps patted double-time with hers, and with the jaunty movement, streamers of dust trailed in th
e air behind. The girl started a nonsense song—or maybe it was Cherokee—as Eleanor flung open the stable door.

  It felt strange entering the man’s work area, as if at any moment she might turn around to his scowl or questioning gaze. His bedding remained where he’d left it, in a heap to one corner. Overhead hung rabbit skins, stretched on frames. She ducked aside them and delved deeper inside, Grace batting at her skirt from behind.

  The whole stable took all of five minutes to dissect. She and Grace discovered many items, but no tubs, no large barrel, nothing but more blessed crates and long-handled tools. Annoyed, she kicked a bucket filled with cobwebs, hardly large enough in which to soak her feet, and—hold on.

  She bent, narrowing her eyes, her vision now adjusted to the dim light. Why would the dirt be so disturbed beneath a bucket that looked as if it hadn’t been used in months?

  Grabbing a shovel, she scraped the ground. The metal edge thudded against wood. Scraping a bit more, she discovered a lid, less than a handspan in length. Ought she uncover the secret that lay below? Mr. Heath had obviously taken lengths to hide whatever it was. Did she really want to know the man’s business?

  Grace shot forward and dug her little fingers into the ground, lifting up the lid with a shriek. A cascade of loosened dirt fell inside. Grace tumbled backward on her bottom.

  Eleanor squatted, holding out an open palm. “Give it to me, please.”

  Grace rose up on chubby legs, leaned forward, then turned and ran the other way.

  “Little imp!” Eleanor chased after her, grabbing her before she escaped out the door. She swung the girl into her arms, Grace laughing all the while. Eleanor couldn’t help but soften her tight lips—then immediately pursed them and cocked her head.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Pounding hooves grew louder the longer she stood there.

  She raced back to the hole in the dirt, Grace in one hand, the wooden lid in the other. Dropping to her knees, she lined up the lid with the edges of the buried box—and her gaze landed on the contents.

  King George II stared up at her. A bust of him, embossed on a bronze medal. She blinked, trying to see the sense of it. Why would a man hide an award instead of displaying it?

  Why keep a medal of distinction buried like a dead man’s bones?

  Samuel slid from the saddle and walked his mount. His gaze darted from the wide open house door, to the patch of earth scratched by little fingers, to the woman standing in the stable’s doorway. Pink spread over her cheeks, and for some odd reason, she appeared out of breath. He led Wohali closer. Indeed, her chest rose and fell as if she’d just finished a rousing game of Anesta—and the state of her dust-covered skirts declared her the loser.

  “What have you been doing, Tatsu’hwa?”

  “I was simply …” Her eyes widened, and she ventured past the door, her gaze locked on his jaw. “You are hurt.”

  He brushed his knuckles along the ache where McDivitt’s fist had connected with bone. Sure enough, matted stubble met his touch.

  Grace charged out from behind Red Bird and plowed into him, shrieking all the way. The girl could scare a mountain lion back to his lair. He bent and swept her up. Dirt rained down, her teeth a flash of brilliance against a canvas of earth. Her light hair wore a layer of soil. So … this little urchin was the reason for his wife’s sorry appearance.

  His lips twitched into a half smile—a full one might split the gash on his jaw. “Looks like we could all use a dip in the creek.”

  Red Bird gasped.

  He held up a hand. “Peace, woman. I meant separately.”

  Setting down Grace, he edged to Wohali’s flank and unstrapped the package wrapped by Greeley. “I picked up a few things in town for you.”

  Her mouth dropped as he handed her the bundle. “For me?” Eyes the color of an endless August sky searched his. “But why?”

  For the space of a heartbeat, he allowed the unhindered connection, then turned aside and tugged down his hat, making sure the scarred half of his face remained in shadow. “You act as if no one ever bought you anything.”

  “It is … unusual.”

  Samuel watched her, looking for a hint of the woman inside. What kind of life had she led? A laced-up, prim and proper beauty on the outside, but what sorrows lurked in the corners of her past?

  “I don’t know what you’re used to,” he said slowly. “But if you need something, I will provide. I take care of my own.”

  Grace wrapped her arms around his leg and tried climbing up. He smiled down at her. That was some statement he’d made. His own daughter looked as if he’d abandoned her to a pig wallow.

  “How? I mean …” A ray of sunlight reached through the canopy, casting a rosy halo around Red Bird’s head. The way she worked her lower lip, clearly thoughts tussled one another, much as he and Inoli had wrestled on the ground.

  “If I may be so bold,” she finally said, “what is it that you do? As an occupation, I mean.”

  He laughed and slapped Wohali on the flank, freeing the horse to amble down to the creek for a drink. “You married a trapper and a scout.”

  “A trapper?” The word rolled off her tongue as foreign as when he’d handed her some jerky.

  “I got you something else, too.” Reaching behind, he pulled the pistol from his belt. He set it on top of the pack she hugged to her chest, as if he might snatch it away at any moment.

  Color drained from her face. “I know nothing of firearms, sir.”

  “Well, I reckon you’ll learn right quick. You’ll need to.” He sidestepped her and strode to the house, the thought of jerky rumbling in his gut.

  Grace’s footsteps scampered behind.

  As did the woman’s swishing skirt. “Is it so dangerous here?”

  He rummaged through one of the stacked crates, easily retrieving a hunk of dried meat. Though he would not admit it out loud, it was easier to find things since she’d straightened up the cabin. He took a big bite, checking on Wohali out the open front door as he chewed. The mount had returned from the creek and now nibbled on the wild grass among the ferns at the yard’s edge.

  Turning back to Red Bird, he leaned against the door frame. “That friend of yours, the one who came over with you on the ship, why do you think she crossed?”

  For a moment, Red Bird’s nose crinkled, then cleared as she set the bundle on the table. “Oh, you must mean Biz. She was sent here because of … umm … indiscretions.”

  A smirk pulled his lips. Lord have mercy. As if the woman’s English stays hadn’t been tight enough, must her speech be just as constricted? “I’d wager that the woman’s ‘indiscretions’ are nothing compared to the rest of the criminals shipped over here every day, and that’s one of the reasons why I bought you that firearm.”

  He pushed away from the door and sat in the chair, allowing Grace to climb up his legs and onto his lap.

  “What are you saying, Mister—” Red Bird pressed her fingers against her mouth, retreating a step.

  He frowned at the movement. The woman was more skittish than an unbroken colt. He’d handed her no cause to react as if he might strike her at any moment. Why such a response?

  “The colonies are a dumping ground for rogues and scoundrels. For those wily enough to flee from their masters, the backcountry provides safe hiding.” He nodded toward her pistol. “I’ll teach you to shoot tomorrow.”

  Her brow twisted into a question mark. “But surely there is some kind of law even out here?”

  “There is. And it’s sitting right on that table where you left it.”

  Her gaze traveled to the pistol, then cut back to him. “What of magistrates and courts? The British Empire was founded on such principles as order and legality. Oh, I know, I am not in England anymore, but King George is sovereign in this land, as well. Justice must be meted out in a suitable fashion.”

  “Must it?” He set Grace down and shot to his feet. The woman could have no idea the blow she’d struck. A punch to the kidneys would’ve been kind
er. He strode to the door. “I’ve seen better justice carried out by a pack of wolves.”

  “You speak as if—”

  He turned on her. “As if what?”

  She blinked, the blue of her eyes deepening with realization. “You are not entirely happy with the crown.”

  He bit back a curse, swallowing the bitter aftertaste. “Would you be happy to have your hard-earned coins line the pockets of some dandy in a wig? One who knows nothing of sweat or hunger?”

  “It is the same across the ocean.” Red Bird bent, handing Grace a wooden spoon, then once the child began dragging it around in some kind of imaginary game, she straightened and faced him. “There is want and need in London as well, yet taxes are paid without such vehement protest.”

  He stifled a snort, tempted to pinch himself to see if this was a dream. A political conversation with a woman? And an English one at that? What kind of woman had he married?

  “No.” He shook his head. “It is not the same. Those people are under direct representation. There is a name and face to petition for their grievances.”

  “And there is none here, is that it?” Her head bowed for a moment, and when she looked up, one shapely brow lifted. “But what of virtual representation?”

  He widened his stance to keep from staggering. The woman’s intellect stunned like a morning sunrise stretched brilliant across the horizon. He could admire such a mind—were it not so dangerous. “And what would you know of that?”

  She clasped her hands in front of her, the picture of innocence. “A governess living in a peer’s home overhears many conversations.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. Men would die to gain the information stored in that pretty head. “Clearly you were not employed for the Earl of Chatham, for he claims virtual representation is the most contemptible idea that ever entered into the head of a man.”

  Her jaw dropped. “How would you know that?”

  “We’re not as ignorant out here in the backcountry as you may think.”