Biz blew out a snort. “He didn’t.”
“Did not what?”
“Love her. The word is she married him because she had to.” Biz wiggled her eyebrows, the insinuation made even more vulgar by the action.
Eleanor banished the thought. Samuel had ever been the gentleman in that respect the entire time she’d lived with him. Still … “That is hardly grounds for murder.”
“Molly!” A voice harsh as a crow’s hawked from an upstairs window. “Where are you?”
Molly laid a hand on Eleanor’s sleeve. “I haven’t much time, so listen. Please. The story is Mariah arrived in Newcastle with her father, a banker, who intended to make it rich in the fur trade. He did quite well until he died from the ague, leaving Mariah alone. Maybe if he’d lived, none of what followed would’ve happened.”
Biz huffed, sharp and short. “She shoulda packed up and gone back to Charles Towne. I woulda. Better prospects there.”
Molly shot a glower at Biz. “Regardless, she didn’t. She set her cap on Mr. Heath, the wealthiest man in the territory.”
Eleanor sucked in a breath. None of this made any sense. “No. Impossible.”
“Hah!” Biz laughed. “You din’t know?”
Eleanor shook her head, hoping the movement would reassemble all the information from Biz and Molly into some sort of picture.
Molly patted her arm. “He was also quite the drunkard, as I understand.”
“No!” Eleanor pulled away, her shoulder hitting the wooden slats of the mercantile’s wall. “That is not true. I have never seen him take a drink.”
“Molly!” This time the voice sailed out the front door, followed by the clack of heels.
“Eleanor, listen.” Molly leaned closer. “You gave me advice once on how to care for Mrs. Greeley. I took it to heart, and it made my life easier. Grant that you’ll do the same with my advice. Go stay with Biz and Reverend Parker. It is not safe for you to remain under Mr. Heath’s roof, whether he’s your husband or not.”
“But I do not think I am in any danger—”
“Molly!” Mrs. Greeley’s voice shrieked like an off-tune violin. “Come when you are summoned!”
Molly darted off, calling over her shoulder, “I must go. Do say you’ll come tonight.”
“Come where?”
But it was too late. Mrs. Greeley grabbed Molly’s upper arm and swept her into the store. Eleanor had no choice but to turn back to Biz. “What is she talking about?”
“You look as bewildered as the first time I laid eyes on you back in Bristol. There’s a—” Biz’s face paled as she looked past Eleanor’s shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Here comes yer man. I’ll make this fast. You should know that Mariah went after your Heath. But someone named McDivitt wanted her for himself. There’s bad blood between those two, so to spite him, Heath gave in to Mariah’s wiles.”
Grace’s babble carried from the stairs.
Biz spoke faster. “But turns out the woman were after his money, so the marriage din’t go well from the start. One night, after a drunken rage, yer man set fire to the house, burning her alive. Some say as he was remorseful though, being he ran back in and pulled out his daughter. But all say it were his fault.”
“Then why did he not go to jail?” Eleanor whispered.
“He did. But they let him go. It was his word against a dead woman’s—and the dead don’t testify.”
Wariness buzzed inside her heart like a swarm of bees, stinging and pricking and poisoning. How was she to understand any of this? The man who’d saved her life, twice over now, and never forced himself upon her was a schemer, a drunkard—a murderer? “I can hardly believe it,” she murmured.
Footsteps thudded behind her. A low voice curled into her ear. “You pick out that fabric yet?”
She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and turned to face Samuel. “No, not yet. May I introduce you to Miss Hunter,”—she swept out a hand—“though you met her that first day when you collected me. Miss Hunter, Mr. Heath.”
“Aye. I remember.” Samuel tugged the brim of his hat. “Miss Hunter.”
“Mr. Heath.” Biz tossed her head like a saucy mare and faced Eleanor. “Say you’ll come to the festival tonight.”
Eleanor glanced up at Samuel, expecting him to say no immediately. He said nothing, just slid his gaze to hers. Who knew what went on behind those dark eyes of his?
She wetted her lips. “Biz and Molly have invited me to some sort of festivity this evening. Might I … er, I mean, may we stay?”
“Festivity?” Samuel’s eyes shot to Biz. “Prettied up the name, did you?”
Biz scowled.
Clearly they both knew something she didn’t. The unwelcome feeling was becoming all too familiar and beginning to pinch. She studied Samuel’s face for a clue. “Is there a festival or is there not?”
His lips twitched. Nothing more. “I’ve not heard it called such before. Some say it’s a rendezvous. Others call it the Summer Outfit. I say it’s an excuse for brawling and drinking.”
Well, then. Apparently she had her answer. She reached out and squeezed one of Biz’s hands. “I am sorry we cannot stay. Please give Molly my apology as well. I appreciate the invitation but—”
“We’ll be there.”
Eleanor whirled to face Samuel. “We will?”
Why would he want to stay for brawling and … Oh, God. Drinking? Surely he would not, would he?
He flashed a smile at her and tipped his hat once more at Biz. Stooping, he swept up Grace, who’d held on to his leg, then strode across the porch and entered the mercantile.
Eleanor turned to Biz, trying hard to keep from gaping.
Biz arched a brow. “If I were you, I’d be careful.”
Samuel threw the last pelt atop the stack beneath the canvas, a slapdash shelter which was tied to one side of the wagon and staked to the ground. Not a tent fit for royalty, but it would do for one night. He straightened and slipped his gaze to the west. Beyond the rise of blue hills, the sky stretched ever bluer, endless, pure, without blemish of cloud. Warm, but no threat of rain. Indeed. The shelter would do.
Pivoting, he strode the few yards to where Red Bird sat on a quilt spread beneath a hickory. Grace sprawled like a hound, head in the woman’s lap, a chubby thumb popped in her mouth. The girl did not lift her head at his approach. Her eyes merely followed his movement. Red Bird’s did not. She’d not met his gaze since earlier in the day.
He crouched on one corner of the blanket and nodded toward the improvised tent. “Grace can sleep over there for now, and you can both sleep there tonight.”
The woman’s lips flattened as she eyed the tent. “You seem rather well prepared. As if you’d intended we stay all along.”
A sigh—more of a huff, really—whooshed out his mouth. The whole ride this morning she’d been nothing but smiles and curiosity, open and warm. Now she was a trap snapped shut. Cold. Steely. He frowned. “Something’s eating at you, woman. What is it?”
“Nothing.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, whiskers rasping against his fingers. He knew exactly where this conversation was headed—nowhere. He’d learned long ago that when a woman said nothing, she meant she’d die a bloody death before divulging what she thought he should already know.
So he shot to his feet. “I got someone I need to talk to. I won’t be gone long. You and Grace stay here.”
“Of course.” Red Bird tucked her chin, the crown of her head hidden by a straw hat, the meaning of her words every bit as concealed.
“What’s got into you?”
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
He stepped closer, making divots in the quilt where his boots fell, and didn’t stop until he reached the hem of her skirt. “Look at me.”
It took a moment, but eventually she lifted her face—yet her eyes never quite reached his, just focused somewhere on his chin.
“Tatsu’hwa.”
Slowly, her blu
e gaze slid to meet his.
His chest tightened, and suddenly breathing required effort. He’d seen that look before. A lifetime ago. Just before his shot met its mark. It had always bothered him when trepidation registered in Mariah’s eyes, but from Eleanor it was a kidney punch.
He sucked in a breath. “You look as if I’m about to strike at any moment.”
“Ridiculous.” She dipped her face again, this time smoothing her hand along Grace’s loose hair.
A valiant effort at disguise—but one that didn’t work. Not the way her fingers trembled. The woman feared him in a new way—but why? He sorted through the events of the day like rummaging through a haversack, picking out one memory after another, examining each, none of which … ahh. She’d spoken to that fair-haired vixen friend of hers at the mercantile. A fierce scowl pulled down his brow. That fear in his wife’s eyes was put there by one thing.
Gossip.
He turned on his heel. The sooner they were out of this town, this bed of vipers, the better. “I won’t be long.”
He clomped off, digging each step more forcefully than needed. A reckless gesture—but satisfying in a small way. As he set foot on the road leading into Newcastle, the stench of manure, sweat, and clothing and bodies that hadn’t been washed—maybe never—crawled in and festered in his gut. A hive of men swarmed around the trading post. Renner had to be grinning about that.
Beckett’s outfitting shop had a line snaked clear out the door. He passed the length of men, keeping to the other side of the road. A few called his name. He merely lifted a hand in greeting and kept eating up ground with his boots.
The closer he drew to Grey’s Tavern, the more determination it took to keep going. His step hitched only once. At the door. When the scent of rum reached out, taunting, tempting. Saliva rained at the back of his mouth. It would be easy to give in. Just one drink. Only one, and leave it at that. His jaw clenched. That was a lie he’d bought one too many times. Still … what made him think he was strong enough to resist this time?
Oh God, help me.
He swallowed and lurched through the door.
Though still daylight outside, night shadowed the room, windows so coated with soot and grease and the shame of men that light didn’t stand a chance. Did he? He hadn’t set foot in here since—his stomach clenched.
Ignoring the catcalls from a table of men seated in the corner, he stalked to the bar.
“Well, well, look what dragged in the front door. Never thought to see you in here again.” Nehemiah Grey slammed a mug down on the counter in front of him. “What’s it to be?”
Samuel worked his jaw. One word, and that mug would brim over with ale. Foamy. Tangy. He stared, long and hard.
Then shoved the mug away. He pinned Grey with a fierce glower. “Information.”
Grey’s lips parted. Teeth—what few remained—hung from his gums like crooked fence posts. “That’s more expensive than my best rot gut. You buyin’?”
Reaching inside a pouch at his waist, he pulled out a leather sack. The coins inside jingled as it hit the counter.
Grey’s arm struck like lightning, the pouch disappearing behind the counter before the last jingle faded. “What makes you think I know anything?”
Samuel widened his stance. “Secrets pour out with every bottle you serve. I just want to know if anyone’s rode in from Charles Towne with a mind to go to Keowee.”
Grey cursed so sharply Samuel feared one of the man’s teeth might break loose and hit him like a shot.
The bartender’s gaze narrowed. “You know as well as I do, Heath, that half the trappers out here pass by Keowee. I could name more’n a dozen men without even trying.”
“Not talking about a trapper.”
Grey sniffed, his brows rising with the action. “Why would anyone other than a trapper or a half-blood venture a trip out there?”
Samuel studied the man a moment more, then wheeled about. Grey didn’t know anything. Sutton hadn’t either. It appeared that perhaps the negotiator gave him the slip and wasn’t coming through Newcastle.
He stalked out the tavern door, foul mood sinking into rancidity. Maybe his time would be better spent at Keowee. Better for him—but maybe not so much for Red Bird.
Chapter 24
Eleanor leaned her head against the hickory and closed her eyes, fanning herself with a handkerchief. She’d thought it warm at the cabin, but down here in the valley, heat took on a whole new meaning, like dragon’s breath, all sticky and moist. Good thing Grace slept, or she’d be whining. Eleanor peeked open one eye, checking to make sure the girl yet curled beneath the shade of Samuel’s canvas shelter. Light hair sprawled over a soft piece of buckskin, right where she’d laid her.
Good. She shut her eyes once more and went back to deciphering all the bits of information she’d learned of Samuel. Nothing added up, not satisfactorily. The beginnings of a headache throbbed in her temple. Could be from the heat, but more likely from the conflict between what she’d heard of Samuel—and what she knew of him from experience.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Heath.”
Her eyes shot open. Angus McDivitt stared down at her, an arm’s length away. How had he drawn so close without her hearing?
She rose, but he crouched, pulling her down to the quilt along with him. “Din’t mean to disturb you. Is yer husband around?”
The pounding at her temple rolled out like a thunderstorm, the beat dangerous. Clearly the man could see that Samuel was absent. “I … I am certain he shall return soon.”
A lump moved along the man’s lower cheek, lodging toward the back of his jaw, then slowly a smile spread. Brown juice coated his teeth. “Shame he left you here alone. Unprotected. Course you ought to be used to that by now, eh?”
She remembered well what it’d felt like to be left alone with Samuel those first few days. Cold fear, always present, the wondering, the what ifs. But here, now, breathing in the sweaty, almost fishy odor of this man, his gaze boldly holding on to hers, the wretched twist in her belly drove her to the edge of the quilt. Where was Samuel?
McDivitt sank fully onto the blanket, stretching out his legs and leaning against the trunk she’d abandoned. “Maybe I’ll just wait for him then.”
Eleanor forced her breathing to remain even. This was awkward. Would the man just sit there and stare at her until Samuel magically appeared? And if he chose to, what could she do about it?
She crushed the handkerchief in her hand, weary of playing the victim. No. This man would not get the better of her.
Nor would Mr. Heath.
Tucking her legs beneath her, she sat straighter, higher, positioning herself to look down upon the man where he slouched. “Mr. McDivitt, I know that you and my husband have some differences. I am wondering, though, if you would tell me what they are?”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s he told you?”
“Nothing.”
The lump moved to his other cheek before he answered. “Not surprised, really. You married a snake in the grass, and snakes are silent killers.”
She curved her lips into an encouraging smile, one she often used with young, frustrated charges. “I should like to hear what you have to say.”
“Well, well. A lady who values truth.” He eyed her with an entirely different gleam in his eyes. “Sure, missy, I’ll tell you what happened, but once you know, you might not want to go back home with him. Ever. And if that’s the case”—he leaned toward her—“I want you to know I’ll protect you. I couldn’t save Mariah, but you’ve still got a chance.”
Her smile faded. “I am not asking for protection, sir. I am asking for facts, nothing more.”
A drip of brown leaked out the corner of his mouth, and she willed it to disappear into his beard. To have it hang there, glistening with afternoon light, turned her stomach.
“All right,” he said, finally. “I came to Newcastle long before Heath. Shoot, wasn’t even known as Newcastle back then. Wasn’t known as anything. It was the sweat of
my brow, along with Stane and Renner, what built this town.” At last his tongue darted out, and he licked away the horrid juice. “We fought off Injuns, sickness, a winter snow so deep it near buried the horses. You’d think with the prosperity I brought, the civilization, holding the ground against those savages, why, the government ought to grant a respectable citizen like me the rights to the acreage all around here.”
He stared at her as if he’d made some kind of grand revelation.
She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I am sorry, Mr. McDivitt, but what does the government have to do with you and Mr. Heath?”
He turned aside and spit out a thick wad the size and shape of a hairball. For one horrified moment, she feared he’d hit the quilt, until the thwack of juice met grass.
He swiped his mouth. Mud-colored liquid smeared across the back of his hand, and he wiped it on his thigh. “The governor awarded Heath the land for service in the French ’n’ Indian Wars. It’s your man what owns all the acreage from here to Keowee.”
“But …” She shook her head, which didn’t do much for her headache or her comprehension. “I thought that land belonged to the Cherokee? Why would those people agree to give it to Mr. Heath?”
He cocked his head. “You really don’t know nothin’, do ya? Yer man is part Injun. Lived with ’em the better part of his life.”
The handkerchief fell from her hand. If she listened hard enough, she’d hear her father laughing at her all the way from the grave. She’d married a … a Cherokee? Allied herself to a savage when all her father had asked of her was that she take on a gentleman?
McDivitt laughed, grating, almost a chirrup, and ended with a hacking cough. “I ain’t even told you the half of it yet.”
She swallowed. Did she even want to hear more?
“Heath come to Newcastle back in ’66, thinking to live out yonder like a heathen.” He swung out his arm, stained fingers fluttering toward the blue hills behind him. “And he did, for a time. But that changed when he first laid eyes on Mariah.”
The Captive Heart Page 19