The Captive Heart

by Griep, Michelle;

  She frowned. Better to keep her mind on the topic at hand. “You look nothing like the man.”

  “True.” He shrugged. “I am the image of my father.”

  “Yet you command attention every bit as much as your grandfather.”

  His brow raised, as did a flush of heat up her neck. Thankfully he said no more and faced forward again. La! How loose her tongue had become.

  A bee buzzed past her cheek, and she reared back, grabbing hold of Samuel’s waist to keep from falling. It was a familiar hold, the ride of his solid muscles moving beneath her fingers, one she enjoyed—maybe too much. But even more intimate were the glimpses of his past. He didn’t always answer her questions, but when he did, it painted him—his life—in colors that captivated.

  She had no idea if he’d share further, but she was hungry to hear more. “Why did you not stay at Keowee?”

  With a cluck of his tongue, he urged Wohali onward. By now she was certain the callouses on her behind had grown callouses. Walking might never be the same after this trip.

  “I wanted a home. A real home. Living on the streets, well …” His voice blended with the steady beat of the horse’s hooves, and she leaned closer, loathe to miss a word. “It changes you. Not that I wasn’t grateful for my grandmother’s lodge, but I needed a place to call my own, as selfish as that sounds.”

  “No … it does not.”

  And surprisingly, it didn’t. His words breathed life into the recent portion of scripture she’d read the night they’d left Grace behind with Biz and the reverend. She thought aloud, trying to make sense of it.

  “I think there is a reason Jesus said He went to prepare a place for us, that His Father’s house has many mansions. Not that we were not created to fellowship with others, for we are, but perhaps the desire to have a space of one’s own is but a shadow of what is to come, what we will experience in eternity. A place just for us, created by the Creator. Some, like you, feel it more keenly.”

  He reined Wohali to a halt and turned in the saddle. The shadowed look on his face was impossible to read. Was he angry at her candid speech? Annoyed with her impertinence? What had gotten into her, anyway?

  His big hand brushed along the curve of her cheek. “You always surprise me, Tatsu’hwa.”

  Her heart beat hard against her ribs. The last time he’d touched her like that, looked at her with that heated gleam … she leaned toward him.

  He turned and cracked the reins. “Hyah!”

  Grabbing his waist to keep from tumbling off, she held tight as the horse sped along the trail, weaving between trees. Thankfully the larger foothills were at their back. She’d expected some kind of reaction from him—but not this.

  Eventually they slowed to a less breakneck speed. Her eyelids drooped as she thought on the events of the past few weeks. It seemed like an eternity since she’d tickled little Grace and listened to her giggle. How had the child fared with Biz? Or how had Biz fared with Grace? No doubt they’d both be changed.

  The claw necklace poked against her chest, and she twisted it around behind her neck. She could take it off, she supposed, but for some odd reason, that felt disrespectful to the old woman who gave it to her.

  She frowned. “Samuel, your grandmother … what will happen to her when she is too old to care for herself? Will you take her in?”

  “No.” He shook his head, his long hair brushing against her cheek. “Attakullakulla is many things—stubborn, proud, impetuous—but he will see that she is cared for. As long as he is able.”

  The tone of his voice sent a shiver across her shoulders despite the afternoon heat. “That sounds rather ominous.”

  “Times are changing.” His words weren’t just a prophecy—they were some kind of accusation.

  “What do you mean?”

  A sigh rippled the fabric across his back. “Years ago, there was war between the French and English, a fight for this land. I saw no good in siding with either, but the Ani’yunwiya backed the English, leastwise at the beginning. I fought for them, for Attakullakulla. It did not end well.”

  The memory of a golden medal in a dirt hole flashed bright as the summer sun, as incongruous an image as the man in front of her. How must it feel to be rewarded by the very ones who’d killed his father? Was that why he kept it tucked away? Emotion clogged her throat. Her heart broke for his loss, what he’d been obliged to do for the sake of integrity. “It must have been hard for you, fighting with those who took your father’s life.”

  A muscle on the side of his neck stood out, but his calm voice belied the tension. “Honor always comes at a price, else it would be worthless.”

  Honor, indeed. Of all the wealthy and noble men she’d served, not one matched the virtue in this man, clothed in a simple linen shirt, smelling of gunpowder and strength.

  The path descended along a now-familiar route. She eased back and squinted past his shoulder. Yes, there was an expected bend in the trail and the large rock she’d nearly banged her foot against when they’d traveled this way a little more than a fortnight ago. The closer they drew to Newcastle, the more anticipation pulled her from her groggy state.

  She bounced, more from eagerness than the sideways step of Wohali.

  Samuel shot his arm back, holding her in place. “Don’t fall off now. We’re near to home.”

  “I am anxious to see Grace,” she admitted. “I have missed her.”

  He chuckled. “Me, too.”

  But his humor faded, and he glanced over his shoulder, a grave twist to his mouth. “I’ll miss you as well, Tatsu’hwa.”

  Fear tasted brassy at the back of her throat, and she swallowed. “What are you talking about?”

  He tugged his hat lower, the brim hiding his eyes. “As soon as I see you and Grace home, I’m leaving.”

  Chapter 34

  The final rays of sunlight bled away, the day dying like a great beast. Darkness rushed out from the woods like a band of demons, lifting the flesh on Eleanor’s arms. She scooted closer to Samuel on the wagon seat, seeking his protection from nothing but a silly thought.

  Surprisingly, Grace didn’t stir. The girl lay limp in her arms, dead to the world. A week and a half with Biz had worn her out. A small smile tugged Eleanor’s lips as she brushed her fingers along the girl’s cheek, following the curve of dark shadows beneath her eyes. Surely it was mercy alone that supplied the reverend with patience to put up with Biz.

  Eleanor’s smile faded as the night shadows wrapped around them, especially when she peeked up at the grim set of Samuel’s jaw. Trying to decipher what went on inside that mind of his was impossible, especially with the way he hid his eyes beneath his hat brim and long curtain of hair. For the better part of the last few hours, she’d tried to discover where and why he’d be going on the morrow, but the man simply would not answer.

  A sigh slipped past her lips. Why had God made men such mule-headed creatures?

  “Six.” His voice rumbled with the wagon wheels.

  She frowned up at him. “Sorry?”

  “That’s the sixth time you’ve sighed in the past mile.” He glanced down at her. “At that rate, there’ll be no air left in you by the time we turn into the yard.”

  “Well.” She squared her shoulders. “Perhaps if you told me—”

  “The less you know, the less likely you are to get hurt.”

  She jerked her face aside, unable to quell a sudden wave of petulance. “As if that matters.”

  “It does.”

  She snapped her gaze back to him, but he said nothing more. He slapped the reins, urging Wohali onward, eating up the last stretch of road to home.

  When they pulled into the yard, Grace stirred on her lap. A lantern glowed inside the cabin, reaching out the front window like a yellow warning. Eleanor turned to Samuel, about to ask who he thought might be inside, but his big finger rested on her lips, cutting her off. With his other hand, he pulled out his rifle.

  Alarm prickled at the nape of her neck—until a g
rin split Samuel’s face, and he hopped off the seat.

  Eleanor peered back at the cabin. The silhouette of a warrior blackened the open door.

  “Ee-no-lee!” Grace awoke with a cry and squirmed out of Eleanor’s grasp, clambering off the wagon and tagging her father’s heels.

  Eleanor grabbed her skirts and followed. How had the man known they’d return home this night? What kind of otherworldly connection did he and Samuel share?

  The men clasped arms at the top of the stairs, exchanging words. Eleanor paused, imprinting the scene on her mind and heart. This cozy cabin. The tall pines hugging the yard in a protective embrace. The warmth of light shining inside and the loamy fragrance on the early evening air. This was more than a little slice of heaven. For a single, breath-stealing moment, it felt like home. What a queer feeling, one she wanted to own, but she suspected that if she reached out, it would slip from her fingers.

  Samuel’s growl and subsequent slap of his hat against his thigh grabbed her attention. Whatever Inoli told him was not sitting well. She picked her way up the steps as he ran his hand through his hair.

  “Samuel?” She drew close to his side, giving the native a wide berth. Inoli may be a trusted friend, but his solemn-eyed stare and coiled muscles still unnerved her. “Why is Mr. Inoli here?”

  The two men exchanged glances. Without a word, Inoli vanished through the cabin door on soundless feet.

  Samuel shoved his hat back on his head, lightning flashing in his eyes as he faced her. “Seems McDivitt’s been raising a ruckus while we’ve been gone. Calling in debts. Shooting threats around like buckshot. Inoli feared the man would burn down my house to match the lot in town I wouldn’t sell him.”

  “I see.” And she did. She remembered the look in McDivitt’s eyes, crazed and wild. As if Satan himself peered out from the inside. She’d seen a stallion put down once for a gleam of far less madness.

  But what if McDivitt decided to carry out his threat while Samuel was gone? She lifted her face to his, trying to hold back the fear from quivering in her voice. “Does that mean you will stay here, or will you still leave tomorrow?”

  For a moment, he stood there. Granite. The calm before a terrible squall. A muscle jumped on his jaw.

  Pivoting, he tramped to the door and disappeared inside.

  Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself, warding off the early evening chill—but it did nothing to stop the coldness seizing her heart at the thought of Samuel’s absence.

  Samuel stared out at the blackness from where he sat on the porch. Something wasn’t right about this night. The crickets were too loud. The cicadas, too buzzing. Everything was brittle. Sharp. Like walking on a thin piece of ice, knowing the hairline cracks were about to give way and frigid water would swallow him whole.

  Judging by the way Inoli stood on the edge of the front porch, arms folded and alert, he felt it, too. Even Grace had cried herself to sleep, a wailing cry, the eerie keen of something more than fatigue.

  “The air is not right.” Inoli spoke without turning around. “You should not go to Charles Towne. Not yet.”

  “You sound like Grandmother.” Samuel grunted. “And if I don’t make haste and return to Chota as if I’ve done nothing more than make a run to Fort McCaffrey, then Miss Browndell and Attakullakulla will know I’ve been up to something more. I would be exposed for what I am.”

  “And what is that, Ya’nu?” Inoli’s black gaze drifted over his shoulder and pinned him in place.

  He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “You are an honorable man. At times, too honorable.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Inoli faced the yard again, his back rigid. He stared into the night as though he could see what evil awaited them. “You cannot right all the wrongs in this world. You will die in the trying.”

  The crickets stopped. So did the cicadas, replaced by a low rumble in the distance. Samuel shot to his feet, snatching up his rifle as he went. Lights like fireflies flickered in the east, growing larger. The pounding did, too. He and Inoli stood ready, waiting, silent. No words were needed. They’d hunted together for so many summers, they moved as one.

  Five horses thundered up the road, each rider carrying a torch. Stane led the pack. Foam gathered at the corners of his mount’s mouth, and the horse reared when yanked to a stop. Men and horses spread out in front of the porch, Stane at center.

  Blood rushed in Samuel’s ears. Something big must’ve happened to warrant a ride in the dark way out here.

  “We need you, Heath.” Deep breaths poked holes in Stane’s words. “Mercantile vault’s been robbed. Cleaned out.”

  Samuel cradled his rifle. “What’s that to do with me?”

  Torchlight danced over Stane’s grim jawline, the shadows making him more ghoul than human. “Sutton’s lying near to dead because of it.”

  Every muscle in him clenched. Ben Sutton had been the only man who’d never looked askance at him, not once lifted an accusing brow or whispered what Samuel’s part might’ve been in Mariah’s death.

  Samuel forced words past his tight throat. “Who did it?”

  “Two men. One, a stranger, rode in during the Summer Outfit. The other”—Stane’s horse shied sideways, and he reined him in—“McDivitt.”

  The name pierced like a well-aimed arrow, and he widened his stance to keep from staggering. McDivitt had taken it too far this time. Crossed the line. This wasn’t just about robbing a vault. Taking down Sutton was a direct strike against Samuel. His hands shook on the rifle stock.

  “How long ago?” he asked.

  “Few hours. Will you lead us?”

  One man—Pickens—tipped his hat. The rest sat stony-faced, torchlight licking their faces like the flames of hell.

  Blast! What to do? If he went after McDivitt, could he still make it to Charles Towne and back to Chota in time?

  Stane spit out a curse. “Time’s wasting, man. What do you say?”

  Samuel glanced at Inoli, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He cut his gaze back to Stane. “Go on home. All of you. I ride with Inoli alone.”

  Stane roared. “You can’t—”

  “You challenging me?” Samuel stared him down. “I’m the best hope you’ve got if you want them brought in. Remember what happened with Blacking.”

  The torches sizzled. One horse snorted. Another pawed the ground. No one spoke.

  Finally Stane shook his head. “Every man here had money in that vault.”

  Rage tasted bitter, traveling down his throat to his gut. “I got more than money riding on this. Sutton’s my friend.”

  Stane’s gaze seared into his. Then he gave a stiff nod and jerked his mount around. “Come on, boys.”

  The horses rumbled off—yet the crickets did not resume their song.

  Inoli said nothing as Samuel stalked into the house. Shadows filled the tiny cabin, but he didn’t need any light. Anger burned bright enough inside him.

  Red Bird stood at the window. He breezed by her toward his storage chest.

  “Samuel, please tell me what is happening.”

  Her words hovered in the night air, as unnerving a sound as Grace’s choppy breathing. He ignored both and rummaged in the chest, pulling out bags of shot, his spare powder horn, and an additional knife for his other boot.

  Footsteps padded behind him. “You are frightening me. Please, tell me what happened.”

  He reached inside his hip pouch and pulled out Miss Browndell’s ring. No sense losing that on the trail—for no doubt this would be quite a ride. The metal heated his skin, and he squeezed the life from it before splaying his fingers. The ring landed silently inside his storage chest, a small act, setting a course he would not be able to turn from.

  “Samuel?”

  He slammed the lid shut, slid the knife into his boot, and swung the extra powder horn and hunting bag over his shoulder. Then he stood and faced his wife.

  Everything in him screamed to pull her into h
is arms, kiss away the fear on her face, whisper endearments that would redden her cheeks. But it wasn’t time. Blast! It was never time. And what if … Oh God … Closing his eyes, he swallowed, throat tight. What if it never would be time for them?

  Then better he withdraw. Here and now. Not start something he didn’t know if God would give him grace enough to finish.

  His eyes shot open, and he branded her image into his mind, for this could very well be the last time he saw her.

  When he walked out the door and hunted down McDivitt, it was kill or be killed.

  Chapter 35

  Two days of stifling heat, increased winds, and now this. Doomed. Samuel picked up the word as he might a pebble in his shoe, then as forcefully flicked it away while he squatted and studied the forest floor. Thundering remnants of an earlier cloudburst rolled in the distance, the rumble mimicking his frustration. Not enough rain had fallen to quench the drought-ravaged land, but the right amount to wash away McDivitt’s tracks. Standing, he kicked a stick with the toe of his moccasin. Now? Three months with no rain and a thunderstorm had to break now?

  He wheeled about and stalked back to where Inoli held Wohali’s lead. Snatching the leather strap, he frowned up at his friend. “Nothing.”

  Inoli simply stared at him.

  Growling, Samuel swung into the saddle and yanked his horse around. “Whoever McDivitt’s tangled himself up with is good. Almost too good.”

  Inoli drew next to him. “Yet you do not turn back.”

  “No. I’m not giving up.” He scrubbed his face with one hand, thinking hard. “They have the advantage of the elements, but we know this land. Where would you go if you were being hunted?”

  “West. North and south are too peopled.”

  “No, that’s too general a guess.” Loosing his hold, he allowed Wohali to ramble on while he followed a trail in his mind. Of course they’d head west—as were he and Inoli. But how, specifically? What route? McDivitt would take the path of least resistance. Always had. But the other man surprised him with his twists and turns. He’d taken the bottom of a ravine when Samuel would’ve chosen higher ground. Picked along a rocky crag when splashing through what was left of a river would’ve been easier. So, what was the most unlikely course from here?