He turned on her, a storm brewing in his dark eyes. If a bolt of lightning shot out, she would not have been surprised. His swath of dark hair covered half his face, but she didn’t need to see it to read his emotions. The tight lines of his mouth and the strained muscles on his neck revealed enough.
“House not big enough for you?” His voice was a growl.
“No … I mean … of course it is.” The words slipped from her mouth like a broken necklace, the beads rolling in every direction. She clenched her fingers tighter, hoping the action might squeeze out some courage. “It is a very sturdy home. I simply thought—”
“You thought?”
She swallowed, retreating a step. She much preferred his glower to this unnerving grin.
In three long strides, he closed the distance between them, towering over her. If she looked up, she’d face that disturbing smile, so she kept her gaze fixed on the leather strap crossing his chest, the one holding his rifle against his back, and tried hard not to notice the tanned skin stretched tight over muscle where his shirt hung open.
“And while you were thinking, did you stop to think why I might’ve hauled all that wood to the porch in the first place?” His shirt strained against the strap as he sucked in a breath.
She stood mute. What was there to say? That the thought never crossed her mind? That she hadn’t a clue there’d been some purpose in it other than his laziness to retrieve wood from farther than the front door? That she thought him untidy and unorganized and altogether intriguing?
Intriguing?
Jerking up her chin, she met his piercing gaze head-on instead of dwelling on such a rogue notion. “I did not. I am sorry.”
And she was. Sorry to be in South Carolina. Sorry to fail at yet another position. Sorry to breathe.
He stilled, and for a long while, said nothing. But something stirred inside him, for his shoulders slowly slackened.
“Fine,” he said at length. “But stick to caring for Grace instead of turning this place into some high and mighty English manor. You’re living in the backcountry, woman. Get used to it.”
He wheeled about and stalked off on silent feet, nothing but the shush of the breeze left by his movement ruffling against her cheek.
Her eyes burned. She blinked, refusing to let one tear fall. She’d been wrong. Horribly wrong. Despite her best efforts, she didn’t fit in here.
And never would.
A staccato birdcall pecked against Samuel’s ear, adding to the tension thick between him and the woman. He didn’t have time for this. Not now. But her eyes swam blue, the hurt caused by his harsh words hot and liquid. Her chin trembled, barely perceptible, but enough to catch his eye. He ought say something more, soften the blow from his tongue lashing, reach out and wipe those tears away before they brimmed over and washed her whole face, maybe even pull her to him and let her cry away the pain.
The soft feeling punched him in the gut.
Seven more notes struck. He pivoted and stamped into the woods. He should have known adding a woman would change things, but the blasted lady wasn’t just changing Grace and the house. He shoved down a growl. How could a snip of an Englishwoman get under his skin in a fortnight? She wasn’t much to look at, all red-haired and scrawny. Yet he saw her face as he lay on his pallet in the dark of night, night after night. Her soft breathing a strange kind of incense, and if he sniffed, he just might scent her here and now, for he remembered everything about her.
He cut off the path and dove through the underbrush, relishing the scrape of thorns against his forearms and roots to snag his step. Better to think on green wildness than a red-headed woman.
Ahead, a brown shape emerged from a tree trunk. Inoli was shirtless except for a quiver and bow strapped to his back. His brother’s deerskin leggings matched his own, as did the knife and tomahawk at his waist, but he also wore a traditional breechclout and short moccasins.
Samuel narrowed his eyes and drew up close, circling the man. Faded purple splotches and a few knuckle-split cuts colored his skin. “Looks like McDivitt’s men caught up to you.”
Inoli’s dark gaze searched his face. “Looks like Red Bird leaves a mark on you also, my brother. You charge from your home like a man bent on battle. All you need is war paint.”
He clasped his brother’s forearm with a smile. “Not a bad idea. Let’s walk.”
They turned onto a deer path, broadleaf plantains crushing beneath their feet.
“Are you wishing you’d taken Running Doe instead?”
He chewed on the question like a tough bite of venison. Running Doe might have been ready and willing to welcome him into her arms, but she’d never have taken to Grace the way Red Bird had. He shook his head. “No, Red Bird’s already taught Grace new words and how to sit proper at the table.”
“You have a table?” Humor rippled at the edges of Inoli’s voice.
He turned, shrugging. “She’s changed everything.”
“Even you?”
A scowl waged war on his face, and he wheeled about.
Inoli laughed, the rumbling sound scaring a squirrel up a tree. “So she does not share her bed with you yet.”
He broke into a sprint, preferring flight to fight. One could never win a war of words with Inoli. He’d learned not to try. By the time he passed pine ridge and reached the big rock nestled at the bottom of the next ravine, his shirt clung to his back and sweat trickled down his temples. He climbed up, and his lungs slowed their heaving by the time Inoli scrambled to sit at his side. He may not win at word games, but he could always best his brother at a footrace.
Pulling out a pouch of pemmican, Samuel handed some over. “Tell me of your journey.”
Inoli caught his breath, then chewed good and long before he answered. “Three men tracked me.”
“How far?”
Inoli glanced at him without so much as twitching his face. “As far as I let them.”
Samuel reared back, studying the man’s quiver. Sure enough, three new red beads, thread fresh and white, added to the design sewn into the leather. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. The taking of life, especially that of the unredeemed, sank a rock into his gut. “McDivitt won’t be happy about the loss of his men.”
“It could not be helped.”
He let out a long breath. “No doubt.”
Insects, birds, and small game all chattered, yet for a while, they sat in peace. In an odd way, connection and understanding thrived on the non-words. The forest spoke like God’s voice, alive and real, leaving healing and hope in the wake of silence.
Shadows stretched longer, and finally Samuel spoke. “You delivered the message?”
Inoli grunted. “I will go to Charles Towne no more. Nor should you. Even by night Redcoats roam the streets like rats in a storage hut.” He fumbled with a pouch at the side of his waist and pulled out a scrap of rag paper.
Samuel unfolded the note, his gut tightening. Getting information to and from the Sons of Liberty had always been difficult, but with more Redcoats prowling the city, it would soon become downright impossible. Shoving the thought aside, he focused on the note, black ink now faded to grey, scrawled dead center.
neg. K. A. attend
“Blast it!” He wadded up the piece and pitched it far into the undergrowth.
Inoli’s dark gaze followed the arc, then turned to him. “What does it mean?”
Lifting his hat, he ran his hands through his hair, then tugged the rim down low. “Seems there’s a negotiator coming to Keowee to speak with Attakullakulla about swearing allegiance to the British. I’m to be present and report back the conversation.”
Inoli’s head cocked like a raven, keen interest shining in his eyes. “How will you know when this man comes?”
“Well, either I’ll have to trust Sutton to get me word, or I’ll have to make more frequent trips into town.” He jumped down from the rock, the jolt of hitting solid ground juddering up his legs. “Come home with me and meet Red Bir
d. I think she’s fair enough ready to meet you by now. More than enough. She’s got spunk, I’ll give her that.”
Inoli joined him on the ground, resting a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “No, my brother. Another time. I am off to Keowee.”
“Oh?” Samuel studied his friend’s eyes, but he might as well gaze at a blackened sky. Inoli allowed no hint of what hid behind his placid stare, but something was up.
“Would it not be prudent to see if Attakullakulla is there?”
“Aye. As always, you think one step ahead—which is why I no longer game with you.” He lifted a brow, humor lifting his lips. “There will be time for you to meet Red Bird when you return.”
“Doh-nah-dah-goh-hun-i.” Inoli turned to stalk off.
His brother’s parting words—until we meet again—were custom, but something in his tone made Samuel reach out and grab the man’s arm. “You have another reason for going, don’t you.” It was a statement, giving no quarter to dodge left or right.
Inoli’s dark eyes glittered. Then he pulled away and stalked off.
Chapter 14
Heat sweltered through the front door, waves of it keeping time with the chopping of Samuel’s axe outside. Eleanor fanned herself as she peeked into Grace’s crib. The girl lay in a mess of blond hair that stuck to her cheeks and shoulders, yet her eyelids finally closed. Grace had been cranky and naughty and not just a little teary-eyed all morning. If the last of June were such an inferno, what would July and August bring? How would she even stand it?
Eleanor fluttered her skirts, hoping to create a draft. Oh for a steady London rain.
She rose and edged her sleeves up farther, desperate for air against her skin instead of fabric. Yes, indeed. A little air would be just the thing. She strode toward the door, scooping up an empty bucket on the way. Some water on her feet wouldn’t hurt, either.
Outside, the steady chuck-chuck of the axe grew louder. Earlier this morn the noise had chafed, but now the pattern soothed in an odd sort of way. Instead of tromping off into the woods, Mr. Heath had been working at something since after breakfast. What was he doing?
She padded to the edge of the porch and peeked around the corner. The heat of a thousand blazing suns hit her hard, and she reached out a hand to the support beam.
Mr. Heath wore nothing but buckskin breeches.
Eleanor bit her lip, mortified, yet unable to turn away.
Tanned muscles rippled on a back as naked as the day he was born. Sweat glistened on his bronzed skin, kissed by the sun. Four long lines, reddish, puckered, reached from backbone to rib along one side. The same dark hair that grew wild on his head also curled on the plane of his chest.
Her knees weakened. This wasn’t right. She ought not be looking. She knew it in her head, and in her heart, and by all that was right and holy—but her eyes paid no mind. She went right on staring, heart racing. Guilty. And completely enthralled.
With each swing of the axe, his biceps swelled. The strength in one swipe could kill a man. He drove the blade into the wood, and a snowstorm of splinters flew out. Her husband was a work of art in motion. A beautiful, frightening force of nature. Part animal, part divine.
Without warning, he straightened. His body stiffened, and he jerked his head. Dark eyes locked onto hers, asking questions she did not want to answer or even consider.
Ever.
The bucket fell from her fingers. Sweet, merciful heavens! She was a strumpet.
She ran from the porch, tore down the stairs, and dashed across the yard, sprinting into the woods. Her skirt caught on underbrush, slowing her, but she didn’t stop. She plowed down the small embankment and right into the stream, stopping smack in the middle, letting the bite of water wash over her feet, shoes and all. What had gotten into her?
A cry of frustration welled in her throat. This land, this wildness, had clearly taken effect, stripping her of dignity and decorum. What kind of woman watched a man without a shirt in broad daylight?
And how had her father known she’d become such a woman?
Wading to the bank, she deflated onto a rock and closed her eyes, trying to think. Trying to pray. But too much anger, disappointment, humiliation—too many emotions even to name—pelted her like kicked gravel. So she sat, a statue. A hard piece of granite, one with the rock.
Eventually, she folded forward. Cool water wicked up her skirt, plastering her shift from knees to toes. She bent forward, trailing her hands in the water, letting her fingertips run along pebbles worn smooth by years of gentle yet persistent pressure. She grabbed a handful and squeezed. Muck oozed between her fingers. Why couldn’t the pressures in her life feel as gentle?
On the far bank, a twig snapped. Ferns rustled. Something moved.
She opened her eyes and sat upright. For the space of a breath, she blinked. Surely she was seeing things.
She shot to her feet before everything shut down. Her breath. Her muscles. Time.
Directly across the creek, a bear lifted its great nose and sniffed. The beast lowered its head, swinging it like a scythe. Black eyes stared into hers, sucking the marrow from her bones. The mouth stretched wide. White teeth chomped, clacking like a hammer.
Lightning charged through her veins, pooling in her hands and feet, all sharp needles and white fire. She should turn. Run. Something. But her feet would not move. Even her heart stopped.
The bear rose up on hind legs. A monster of matted fur, except for a scarred section of naked, grey skin puckered at its throat. Rank muskiness wafted across the water. Like meat left raw on a counter. Like death.
A scream started in the pit of her stomach. Rising upward. Gaining momentum. Stalling in her throat from the enormity of it.
Courage. Take courage!
La, who was she kidding? She opened her mouth to release the squall that could no longer be contained.
And hot, calloused fingers covered her lips, pulling her back against a rock-hard chest.
Keeping an eye on the bear, Samuel bent and whispered into Red Bird’s ear. “Face your fear, Tatsu’hwa. I’ve got you.”
She pressed back into him, her body aquiver from wet skirt to mussed hair.
He widened his stance to keep them both from stumbling.
The bear, still alert on two legs, sniffed and snorted. Good. Curiosity was always better than aggression—and a perfect opportunity to teach the woman what to do should this happen again without him nearby. “I’ll remove my hand, but keep watch.” He willed strength and calmness into his voice, casting it like a lifeline for her to grab hold of. “And do not scream. Am I clear?”
Her head moved up and down beneath his hand.
He slipped his fingers a breath away from her mouth, testing if she’d honor her word. One never knew how a woman given to terror might react.
She didn’t make a sound.
He guided Red Bird behind him with one arm while he stepped forward, placing himself between her and the bear.
The animal dropped to all fours, slapping the ground with a forepaw—the smack of it blazing along the scars on Samuel’s back.
Averting his gaze, he stared at the beast but not in the eyes. He pulled himself to full height and squared his shoulders. There was a fine line between dominance and aggression. He spoke with a firm but soothing tone. “Flee, brother bear. There is no threat here.”
The animal snorted, blowing a fine spray of droplets into the air.
Samuel retreated a step, pushing the woman along with him.
Black lips lifted. White teeth clacked together.
He took another step back.
The bear wheeled about and tore off into the woods, smashing and crashing through the brush.
He smirked. “Safe travels, my friend.”
A strangled cry gurgled behind him, pulling him around.
Red Bird wobbled on her feet, her face drained of color. He grabbed her before she fell. Sweeping her into his arms, he stomped up the bank. For a moment, she tucked her head into his shoulder, a hug
e shudder rumbling through her slight body. Six strides later, he set her down, her skirts tangling in a heap of fabric around her.
“You all right?” He peered at her. Splotches of color brightened her cheeks now—a little over-bright, but color, nonetheless.
“I hardly know.” Her chest fluttered.
He gave her space and time, two gifts often overlooked but worth more than gold.
Finally, her breathing evened. She turned her face to his, brow crumpling. “Why did you not simply shoot the beast?”
He spread his arms wide. Warm June air wrapped around his bare skin like a lover’s caress. “Do I look like I’m wearing my rifle?”
Her face paled again, and she scooted away, mumbling all the while. “But he, that bear, what if … you might have been killed.” Her eyes widened. “Because of me!”
“No danger of that.” Bending, he slid his knife out from the sheath on his boot and held it up. “I may not have my rifle, but I am never unarmed.”
A curl of red hair stuck to her forehead. A rogue urge to reach out and brush it away tingled in his fingers.
He shoved the knife back into his boot, giving his hands something else to do.
“Should I be armed?” Her voice rose, as twittery sharp as the cardinal chirping from a pine bough. “Is that why you have taught me to shoot?”
He chuckled. Her? Hunt? The woman paled at cooking a dead animal. She’d never be able to take the life from one. “Don’t fret, Red Bird. If you come upon a bear, it is easier to stand and take charge like I did. Tell it to go away. More often than not, it will.”
Her gaze shot to the scars running from his back to his ribcage, burning along each twelve-year-old line.
He frowned. She was too perceptive—was that a virtue or a detriment? A fly buzzed near his eye, as bothersome as the thought, and he swatted it away. “Aye. I learned that lesson the hard way.”
“I do not understand.” She shook her head. Sunlight glinted a fire on the loosened strands of her hair.
Blast it! He forced his face forward, better to not notice such a forbidden fruit.
The Captive Heart Page 11