“But if you grew up in Charles Towne, how can this be your home?”
Late afternoon sun beat against his shoulders. He tried to hold on to the warmth of it, the softness of Red Bird’s fingers entwined with his, the smoky waft of home fires and damp scent of the river. But it vanished. All. How could a man remember so vividly the blood and loss of a boy almost twenty years later?
“I was a lad of seven when I lost them.” The words tasted sour, and he was unsure if he should spit more out or swallow them all. He’d never told any of this to Mariah. He’d never told anyone.
“How?”
He’d have to answer, for she’d not be put off. But he allowed Red Bird’s question to float around until they drew nearer his grandmother’s lodge.
“My father was pressed into service by the British Royal Navy—supposedly the finest fleet in all the seas.” His throat tightened, and he cleared it. “Nothing fine about it, though. He was dead before his ship set sail, caught dockside, the life flogged from him for desertion.”
He shook his head. Even now the brutality still made no sense. “All he wanted to do was say goodbye.”
Red Bird’s eyes shimmered up into his. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m long past pity.” He stopped in front of the open door of Grandmother’s summer lodge. The familiar smell of juniper, sage, and dried hickory nuts greeted him, removing the sting of memories better left buried.
Behind him, grass flattened beneath leather, and a low voice followed. “Ya’nu, a word.”
He stifled a snort. He’d expected Standing Raven to seek him out, but this soon? He’d not been here an hour yet. He swept out his hand toward Grandmother’s lodge before turning to face the man. “Go in and rest Tatsu’hwa. As I told Miss Browndell, it will be a long night. We will speak more later.”
“But … what of you?” The little dimple on her cheek frowned at him. “Will you not come in with me?”
Did she want him at her side simply because she wanted to hear the rest of his story? Or because she was anxious? Or … dare he hope … that she wanted to be with him? He reached and tucked back the same rogue curl that always managed to escape from her hairpins, fighting the desire to brush his knuckle along her smooth cheek. “I will come back for you. Grandmother is inside, and she will be more than happy to care for your needs.”
Red Bird’s nose bunched. “Grandmother?”
He lifted the bear claw at her neck, holding it up for emphasis. “The one who gave you this.”
Her brows shot skyward. “She is your grand—”
“Ya’nu!” Standing Raven called from behind. “Come.”
With a sigh, he turned from Red Bird, ignoring her protests as he strode to Standing Raven. The man didn’t speak another word. His long legs simply ate up ground as he wove past summer and winter lodges. He stopped at the riverbank, folded his arms, and gazed out at the water.
Samuel followed. There was nothing more to be done. One could poke a stick at Standing Raven all he liked, but the man would not be moved until he was ready.
Finally, Standing Raven spoke, without varying his gaze from the horizon. “The Beloved Man has heard of your arrival—and of your white wife.”
Samuel bent, scooping up some pebbles. One by one he skipped them across the water. Two could play at the waiting game. When the last of the ripples dissipated, he turned to Standing Raven. “And?”
“He sends me.” The man looked down his crooked nose, broken several times over—once by Samuel. “He says it is time for you to choose.”
Samuel threw his arms wide. “It is time for everyone to choose. You know the people are not one. Some back the British, believing their lies to stop the stealing of land. Others side with the colonists, for they are many with their firearms and promises.”
Standing Raven lifted his chin. “That is not an answer.”
“Well I don’t have one.”
A scowl pulled the man’s face, the bump on his nose more prominent from the action. “You are as divided as your blood.”
“Do I not speak truth?” He huffed. How to make him understand? “You know the people are not one on this matter, bloodline or not.”
Standing Raven’s jaw hardened. Water rippled, lapping at the banks. A host of sparrows swooped overhead. But the man said nothing, just stared, a study of stillness.
Samuel widened his stance, preparing for the long haul.
He wasn’t disappointed.
The sun shifted lower on Standing Raven’s shoulders before he spoke again. “I have thought these things myself … how to turn my back on brothers I would die for. Yet I stand with whatever the Beloved Man decides.”
“I respect that—but I will not commit.” Not out loud—and especially not to the Beloved Man’s earpiece.
“You cannot straddle a river for long, Ya’nu, and expect to remain standing.”
He grunted. He knew that, all too well … which is why he’d already made his choice.
But if Attakullakulla knew his stance, the man would have him shunned as anathema for some trumped-up reason—and Grandmother, his only living ancestor, would be lost to him forever.
He pivoted and stalked away on silent feet. It didn’t matter the color of skin. McDivitt. Attakullakulla. Black hearts beat in them both.
Chapter 30
Samuel ducked into the large council lodge, trading fresh night air for the heat of many bodies packed into the meeting space. All were here—except those confined to their sleeping mats—even children, though the little ones were relegated to the back edges. And that’s where Miss Browndell’s manservant Mingo squatted. Always in the shadows. Keeping watch over his mistress. His intent was as hard to figure out as a shaman’s dream. The man’s loyalty lay with Miss Browndell, but why?
Beside him, Red Bird gripped his hand tighter. He’d intended to explain what would happen during this council, but she’d slept away the daylight hours. Whatever Grandmother had put in her tea still coaxed a yawn from her. Thankfully his clan sat nearest the door, and he bade her and Miss Browndell to remain near to him. Grandmother nodded her head in greeting as they sat.
Directly across from them, Attakullakulla rose, standing at the edge of the cleared center. Samuel schooled his face to remain blank, but inside his breath caught. How the Beloved Man had aged since he’d last seen him. New creases carved lines at the sides of his mouth and eyes. His head remained shaved, except for a long scalplock, which was now laced through with white strands. Golden rings pulled his earlobes to his shoulders, but likely not from the weight. More like the drooping skin of an elder, matching the flap at his chin.
The Beloved Man lifted his hand, and chatter ceased. “My family, it is an omen the white woman comes the night before I leave for Chota. It was meant.”
Grunts and whispers traveled the circle. Samuel resisted cutting Miss Browndell a sideways glance. No wonder she’d been so insistent on getting here. If she’d missed this opportunity, she’d have had to wait until next year.
“We will hear what the English have to say, and then we will talk.” The Beloved Man retreated to his mat on the floor. “Speak, woman.”
Samuel glanced at Miss Browndell, wondering if she’d understood. More often than not, his instincts proved true. Would they this time?
She met his stare … then slowly rose and advanced.
“Brothers and sisters.” She pivoted as she spoke, ensuring all might hear. “I come with an offer from your family across the big water. The great ones see your land is being taken, that you are pushed from your hunting grounds. And they are in agreement—it is not right.”
Many heads bobbed. But not all. Samuel mentally tallied those who showed no eagerness, then shot to where Inoli’s father sat. The man could be a champion card player should he ever wish to enter the white man’s world. Not surprising. Samuel gave up gaming with Inoli years ago because he always won.
Miss Browndell reached into her pocket and pulled out a single gold co
in the size of her palm, along with a folded piece of rag paper. Torchlight gleamed off the scarlet seal affixed to the document, looking like a pool of blood. The image lifted bumps on Samuel’s arms.
“Once you and your son, Dragging Canoe, pledge your warriors, this treaty ensures peace between our people.” She handed the money and the paper to Attakullakulla.
The Beloved Man turned the coin over, the flash of gold gleaming in his eyes. He tucked it inside the opening of his white trade shirt, then pulled out a knife. With a quick jerk, he slit the seal, the movement eerily like slashing a throat. His black eyes traveled the length of the paper, then he passed it off to Standing Raven, who sat at his right hand.
Miss Browndell stood firm, without a ripple to her skirt.
A baby wailed in the interim, and once the suckling smack of lips replaced the crying, Attakullakulla spoke. “Peace will not be had by words and gold alone, woman.”
Next to him, Red Bird shifted, scooting closer to his side. His stomach clenched—even without looking to see what bothered her. Ten to one if he glanced two clans to his right, he’d spy Running Doe giving his wife the evil eye. He knew it would happen. Could see it coming like a far-off storm billowing on the horizon. Likely it was a good thing Red Bird had remained hidden in Grandmother’s lodge all day.
“What you say is true, Great Chief.” Miss Browndell’s confident tone drew every eye toward her. “And this is why, once you and Dragging Canoe sign that treaty, wagonloads of firearms and ammunition await you at an undisclosed cache.”
Samuel stiffened, listening with his whole body. This was why he’d been sent. The single purpose to enduring Miss Browndell’s abrasive personality the past five days. Men would die for this information.
Hopefully he wouldn’t be one of them.
The Beloved Man rose, towering above Miss Browndell’s small frame. Yet she did not flinch.
“Why should I believe you, white woman? Where is your proof?” He grabbed her jaw and held fast. With the snap of his arm, he could break her neck.
Near the door, Mingo shot to his feet—but as quickly two warriors arose on each side of him, both lifting a knife to his neck.
Miss Browndell stood tall. “Release me.” Her words came out garbled.
Tension thickened, as strong as the smell of bear grease. Attakullakulla narrowed his eyes to slits, then released her.
Miss Browndell slipped her hand inside a side-slit in her skirt to access her pocket and pulled out a shiny, new, double-barreled breech-loading pistol—the same type of deadly firearm Major Rafferty carried.
Samuel eyed the woman with a new understanding. No wonder she’d not been the least bit nervous to travel those few days to Newcastle with naught but a Negro. With Mingo and that pistol, she could kill a pack of wolves in a heartbeat.
She offered the pistol on an outstretched palm. “Just a sample.”
The Beloved Man snatched the pistol, sighted along the barrel, then aimed it directly at the woman’s forehead.
Silence sealed the lips of every clan member. Red Bird slapped her hand over her mouth. Behind him, Mingo’s breaths came heavy and fast.
A smile split a gash in the Beloved Man’s face. He lowered the pistol and tossed it to Standing Raven, then untucked the talking stick from his waistband. His black eyes sought Samuel’s. “Ya’nu, take the woman back to the lodge.”
“But …” The word died on Miss Browndell’s lips, so fiercely did Attakullakulla turn on her, shoving the carved piece of hickory in her face.
“The talking stick is in my hand, woman. Not yours. You go now.”
Samuel stood, pulling Red Bird up alongside. Normally he’d mind leaving a council meeting mid-discussion, but not tonight—not if it meant he could somehow wrangle the munitions information out of Miss Browndell.
And he had to—or a killing spree would bloody this land, the likes of which these colonies had never seen.
Eleanor fixed her gaze on the awful sight of Miss Browndell toe to toe with the most fearsome warrior she’d ever seen. The man shoved a stick in her face, yet she didn’t cower. Steel girded the woman’s bones—and for a single, curious moment, Eleanor wished she might be as brave as Miss Browndell, for it certainly captured the attention of her husband. He’d not pulled his eyes from her since this council began. He’d never studied her, his own wife, that intently, and for some odd reason, that irked her. Though it oughtn’t … should it?
She lowered her face, refusing to watch the confusing scene—or sort through her even more confusing emotions. Surely such unrest must be blamed upon the strange-tasting tea Samuel’s grandmother had urged on her this afternoon. Or maybe she’d simply become oversentimental after hearing about the death of his parents. Whatever the reason, no good would come of forgetting that Samuel Heath owned her, nothing more.
Pinching a loose thread on her sleeve between forefinger and thumb, she rolled it back and forth, trying to ignore the hard-edged stare of a native woman who sat farther down the circle. Eleanor had made the mistake of glancing at her when she’d entered the lodge, and that brief flash of contact had lifted tiny bumps on her arms. She’d seen that look before—the night she’d refused her father’s proposal to keep company with one of his debt holders. Rage came in many colors, of course, but she’d identified a new shade that night—hellfire red.
Why would a native woman take such an instant dislike to her? Had whites been responsible for some tragedy in her young life? For she was young. Maybe a few years less than herself. The woman’s skin was the lovely color of burnt cream, fresh from the oven, and her deerskin dress hugged shapely curves. Surely she didn’t see Eleanor as competition for one of the other men here?
Silence fell on the council, but it came as a sweet reprieve. The twisted language made no sense whatsoever, and in truth, she was tired of hearing it. Why had Samuel brought her?
His big hand wrapped around her arm, lifting her to her feet. She peered at him, but his face was unreadable in the dimly lit lodge. He led her to the door without a word.
The urge to stamp her foot at his crass treatment nearly caused her to stumble out into the night air. She knew exactly how Grace must feel—for he wouldn’t have treated her any differently. Shuffled here. Put there. Stay in this lodge. No, go to that one. Eleanor pulled from his grasp as soon as they cleared the council hut. “Why did Miss Browndell give that man money and a firearm? What did they say? Surely this had nothing to do with God.”
Samuel retrieved one of the many unlit vigil torches leaned against the lodge wall and touched it to a larger flame that burned atop a beacon post. “None of your concern, wife.”
“Stop treating me like a child!” This time she did stamp her foot—and immediately regretted it.
He lifted his hand to her face, humor twitching the corners of his mouth. “Then stop behaving like one. Now I’m going to cut you some slack because Lord knows what Grandmother gave you to drink today, but listen well. What’s being said in there”—he jerked his head toward the lodge— “is dangerous for you to know. A danger I’m not willing to take. Understand?”
“No. I do not. If you would just—”
“Well, well.” Miss Browndell’s voice interrupted. “I hope I’m not intruding upon a tender moment.”
Samuel dropped his hand, and Eleanor retreated a step as the woman fully emerged from the lodge. She advanced toward Samuel, stepping so close, her skirt swung out to touch his pants hem.
“I’d like a word with you, Mr. Heath.” She slipped a catty glance at Eleanor. “Alone.”
Eleanor looked deep inside, trying to find her own measure of steel, resolving to not care one way or another how Samuel answered. Even so, she leaned toward him to hear his answer.
He turned to her, away from Miss Browndell and her black knight, Mingo. The movement reset her world on its axis.
Then knocked it completely askew when he handed her the torch. “Do you remember your way back to Grandmother’s lodge?”
&nb
sp; She gripped the stick, burnt pitch acrid in her nose, his flat rejection of her every bit as acerbic. Not that she wanted him to spend the night with her, but surely he wouldn’t while it away with Miss Browndell?
And why would she care if he did?
She gave a sharp, short nod.
Something flickered in Samuel’s dark eyes—something more than firelight.
“You’ll be fine, Tatsu’hwa.” His voice softened, mellow as a late summer day. “There is no danger for you here.”
Some of her resolve drained, but not all. Suddenly she was unsure which to hold on to—the tender tone he used with her alone, or anger that he was choosing Miss Browndell over her.
The decision was made for her. Miss Browndell stepped up to his side and ran a finger along his bicep. “Don’t fret, Mrs. Heath. I’ll return him in one piece.”
Heat blazed up Eleanor’s neck and spread across her cheeks. A more brazen woman would not be found walking the Wapping Wharves at night. Yet Samuel said nothing.
His jaw might have hardened, but Eleanor couldn’t be sure, for she whirled so fast the torch spluttered. She stomped ahead, but the farther she drew from the council chamber and the bright beacon torches, the more blackness closed in on her little light. She swallowed. Maybe it hadn’t been so bad being treated like Grace. At least she hadn’t been alone.
An owl’s mournful hoot echoed the emptiness in her heart. How had her life come to this? Pining like a schoolgirl for a man she’d pledged the rest of her life to.
She stopped dead in her tracks, stunned, the realization as bright as a noonday sun. She loved him—and had for quite some time if she were brutally honest. And it was brutal, this feeling, as if she walked upon glass and must be careful or all would shatter. For one crazed eternity, she considered turning back, running full force into Samuel’s arms, and telling him everything. How she wanted him. How he’d become her world. How she needed his touch, his kiss….
The Captive Heart Page 25