The Captive Heart

by Griep, Michelle;

“Ain’t goin’ to!”

  Angus’s voice yanked his face back toward the river. “Hang on, man!”

  McDivitt’s head bobbed under, and he came up spitting a mouthful of water. “I ain’t going with you.”

  “Just stay put!” There, shoved up near the water’s edge not far from Angus, lay a half-submerged limb. Samuel lunged for it.

  “I’m going with Mariah,” Angus yelled, his voice noticeably weaker. “This one’s on you, Heath!”

  “Angus, no! Just wait—”

  McDivitt let go.

  The water grabbed him, jerking his body sideways before slamming him over the edge.

  Samuel stood. Panting. Bleeding. Looking inside for some measure of satisfaction—and finding none. He was numb. Cold. Empty.

  Drained.

  Eleanor awoke with a start, groggy and disoriented. Grace’s hot body pressed against hers, a strand of her hair sticking to Eleanor’s cheek. She picked it away and lifted her head, gazing around the cabin. Everything looked ghostly, like a fog hovering above a moor. Shifting Grace from her lap to the mattress, Eleanor pushed herself up on the bed. A dull roar droned in her ears. She yawned, then stretched. That had been some nap. Hopefully now they’d both be in a better frame of mind.

  But as consciousness seeped in, the haze did not dissipate. She stood, then coughed. Why was it so hot in here? Oh, please. Not a fever. Not now. Pressing her hand against her forehead, she stilled. Warm skin met her touch, not burning. But her eyes stung. She rubbed them with her fingertips, then blinked away the last of her nap.

  A cloud levitated shoulder-height and above, thickening up near the rafters. Fear prickled down her arms, from shoulders to fingertips. This was no fog. This was—

  Oh God, have mercy.

  She dashed to the door, her heart racing as fast as her feet. Flinging it open, she gasped, then staggered onto the porch.

  Hell approached from the other side of the creek. Black smoke capped shooting flames of orange and red. Grasping the edge of her apron, she covered her nose and mouth, then darted down the stairs and across the yard. She stopped at the trees, held back by heat and terror.

  Peering down the path to the creek, she gaped into the jaws of a living inferno, eating everything in its path. On the opposite bank, tree trunks glowed like the sun. Crackling. Snapping. Popping. Thus far only smoke and hot air cloaked this side of the land. Having lived in a country of perpetual dampness, she didn’t know much about forest fires, but surely a riverbed would stop the monster from advancing. Wasn’t water a natural barricade? Of course it was. It had to be.

  Please, God, make it so.

  She whirled from the sight, throat raw, eyes streaming. She’d snatch up Grace and they’d run down the road, away from the horrid fire. But before she took a step, an awful crack, then another, and another spun her back around. Trees fell, crossing the river like flaming bridges, spreading the destruction to her side of the creek.

  Move! She sprinted to the cabin, taking the stairs in one big leap, then stumbled as her toe caught the hem of her skirt. Flailing, she pressed on, lungs burning, eyes watering. Praying.

  My precious Lord;

  My only hope;

  My Saviour, how I need You now.

  Grace lay exactly where she’d left her, dead to the world. Eleanor shuddered from the thought.

  “Grace! Wake up, little one.” She lifted the girl off the bed. “Wrap your arms around my neck and hold on.”

  Thankfully Grace complied, whether from obedience, fatigue, or maybe even from having breathed in so much smoke, Eleanor didn’t know. Nor did she care. The only thing that mattered was escape.

  She sped out the door, ran down the stairs, then stopped mid-stride. A barricade of shooting flames cut off the road.

  Now what? This fire could not be outrun, especially not with a toddler in her arms.

  Panic was no stranger. She’d met him once or twice. Footsteps behind hers in a London alley. The sensual stare of a man undressing her with his eyes. The day she’d faced a bear. But this time panic outdid itself. It climbed beneath her skin, stealing her breath, her heartbeat, her soul.

  Grace clutched her neck, burying her face in Eleanor’s bodice. The child’s life depended on her clear thinking, but who could think when caught dead center in a blazing underworld? Was this it, then? Her last breaths? Grace’s last breaths? Darkness edged in from the periphery. It was too hard to think anymore. To live anymore.

  “Face your fear. I’ve got you.”

  The voice was quiet, low, more bass than the roar of the fire. She spun, choking, coughing out hope. “Samuel? Samuel!”

  No broad-shouldered man staggered through the smoke. No strong arms appeared to steal them away to safety. Nothing but sparks, heat, flames. Ruin. Just her and Grace and destruction.

  And God.

  She stiffened. God, here? In fire and certain death? But … of course. Had He not only encountered death, but experienced it—and endured Hades itself for the sake of all men?

  “Face your fear, little one.”

  Reality barreled back, and slowly she turned. A blast of acrid air singed her eyebrows, coming from the creek. That’s where the worst of the fire burned. Where hell breathed and lived and moved. Face that? She gasped, rasping for breath.

  “I’ve got you.”

  Against all reason, she bolted, crouch-running into the inferno. The flames hadn’t crossed the path yet, but her skin burned nonetheless. To her left, a blazing wall raced to cut her off from the water. The closer to the creek, the more intense the burning. She skidded down the bank, ripping her gown. Pulling her hair. Scraping and bruising. No matter. Even breathing didn’t matter anymore. She couldn’t, anyway.

  She splashed into the water and cast them both down, nothing but their heads exposed. Thank God the creek was low or they’d both drown for sure—but was it enough to protect them from the fire?

  Chapter 37

  Death wore many costumes. This one was ragged and black, and Eleanor loathed the ghastly shroud, wanting to look away but unable to do so. It was as if a giant hand had slit the world’s throat, bleeding out all color and life. She lay in the shallows of the creek, staring up at the sky. Grace lay atop her, head on her chest, arms wrapped tight around her waist as if she might disappear at any moment. And who knew? Maybe she would. The very forest, more stalwart and unshakeable than her, had vanished.

  At the top of each bank, trees stood naked, crooked, like so many tombstones in an aged graveyard, leaning upon one another for support. A breeze rattled the branches, the sound of bones knocking against a door. Every now and then a sharp crack exploded as another limb plummeted to its death.

  She no longer measured time by minutes, but by breaths. Using that scale, an eternity had passed. Night was not far off—and a creek was no place for a child to sleep.

  “Time to move, little one,” she croaked out.

  Grace lifted her head and stared. She didn’t blame her. Did that gruff voice really come out of her mouth?

  She stood and hoisted Grace to her hip. Water poured off her back and down her skirts. Grace was still wet, but not as soaked as her. They both shivered. Grace whimpered. Slogging up the bank took the last of Eleanor’s strength, and she paused at the top, chest heaving, lungs burning. The bruises and scrapes on her arms and legs still hurt. But the pain in her body faded as she stared at the destruction around her. There was no more path, no shrubbery or growth blocking her view to the cabin—and there was definitely no more cabin. There was nothing. She might as well be standing on a barren moor, with smoke smoldering up in wafts instead of mist and fog.

  She stumbled forward, picking a trail over fallen timber to the yard, careful to avoid the hot patches yet smoldering. Ash coated the world like hoarfrost. A faint orange glow of embers speckled the collapsed timbers of Samuel’s home. The stable, a blackened heap, sent up spirals of white smoke, thin ghosts trying to escape. Grace buried her face in her neck, and a sob clogged Eleanor’s throa
t.

  Oh God, whose neck shall I hide against?

  A steady pounding grew louder. At first, she attributed the noise to the thudding of her heart—but it came from the direction of the road, not her chest.

  “Mrs. Heath!”

  Two men guided their horses over the maze of downed wood. Scarves hid the bottom half of their faces. Their hats rode low. Hard to tell who they were, but neither sported the rock-solid shape of Samuel.

  She stood, waiting. Shivering. What more was there to do?

  The first man rode the perimeter of the yard, surveying the damage. The other approached her and swung down from his saddle. He yanked off his kerchief, revealing a band of clean skin from nose to chin and identifying him as Reverend Parker. Soot blackened the creases at the edges of his eyes as he peered at her. “Thank God! Are you and the child all right?”

  An insane urge to laugh shook through her. All right? She stood in the middle of Sheol, and he asked if she were all right?

  “You’re trembling. Here.” He shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “We came as soon as we saw the smoke. Though it grieves me to see you in such a state, it is a mercy you and Grace survived. And we can all thank the good Lord the fire moved uphill, away from Newcastle, sparing more lives than your own. It’s a shame about Samuel’s house, though.”

  She let him ramble on. Honestly, what was there for her to say?

  The other horse trotted up, and the reverend turned to the man atop. “Mr. Stane, help me get them mounted, if you please.”

  Without a word, the man slid from his horse, and they both worked to get her and Grace atop the reverend’s horse. It would’ve been better to separate them, making for a much easier ride into town, but Grace cried, clinging all the tighter to Eleanor’s neck and refusing to let go. By the time they reached the reverend’s house, darkness cloaked the world, and Grace slept against her.

  Biz tore out the front door as Reverend Parker dismounted and held his arms up for the sleeping child.

  “Oh, caw! What a sight!”

  Eleanor reached for Biz’s outstretched hand, grateful for the help. When her feet hit the ground, her legs shook. Maybe from the ride. Or maybe just from this horrible, never-ending nightmare of a life.

  “Thank you,” she rasped, throat still tender. Oh, for a cup of chamomile.

  Biz ushered her inside and shoved her down into a chair. “Wait here.”

  She was left alone with silence and despair. Of all the rooms for Biz to deposit her in, it had to be this one? A memory she’d rather forget lived here, real enough she could reach out and touch it. Should she?

  She rose on legs wobbly as a newborn foal’s and crossed the rug, stopping in front of the mantle. Absently, she traced her finger along the wood. She’d stood here, this very spot, and exchanged vows with a man she hadn’t known. Her gaze followed the movement of her fingertip, back and forth, for if she closed her eyes, no doubt she’d remember the feel of her hand wrapped in his. See the stubble on his cheek as he moved his jaw to say, “I do.” Hear the deep resonance of his voice. She hadn’t wanted to be his that day. Now there was nothing she wanted more.

  But what kind of wife was she? She stifled a cry. One who nearly got him killed, several times over.

  It was too much. All of it. Clutching the mantle, she pressed her forehead against the wood and sobbed.

  Footsteps rushed into the room. Hands gripped her shoulders, but she refused to turn, to accept comfort of any kind. There was a time for grief—this was it.

  Stoneclad Falls swallowed McDivitt’s body in a swirl of foamy water. Samuel stared, numbness giving way to horror. McDivitt was dead, and it was his fault. Such a fate was what he deserved, what every man deserved, unless redeemed by God’s grace.

  Sucking in air, he closed his eyes. God, forgive me. Again and again and again.

  He pivoted and sprinted back to Inoli. A charcoal line split the horizon, low, dividing leaden clouds from a thin strip of cleared sky. The last of day bled out its life there, deep red. Blood red. Samuel pumped his legs faster. Hold on, my brother. His toe caught on a rock and he stumbled, but pressed on, the need to reach Inoli pounding strength into every step. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Maybe McDivitt’s shot hadn’t been mortal. Samuel would remove the ball, stanch the flow, and all would be right.

  The other man, McDivitt’s accomplice, lay on the ground exactly where he’d fallen, still clutching his leg. He howled for help, and would need it soon, especially with an arrow shaft yet sticking out of his gut, but Samuel bypassed him and dashed ahead.

  His steps slowed as he neared the place Inoli had fallen.

  His brother was gone.

  A trail of clawed earth led to the woods. There, Inoli sat propped against a pine. Eyes wide open. Hands folded in his lap. Long legs sprawled out in front of him. Like he waited for nothing more than for Samuel to make a campfire and swap tales of their boyhood long into the evening.

  “Inoli?” Samuel skidded to a stop next to him and dropped to his knees, wincing as pain radiated out from his own wounds. “Brother?”

  Inoli didn’t answer. Didn’t even turn his face. His chest, shirt fabric ripped where the ball had exited, did not rise or fall. There wasn’t much blood—not as much as there should be. Not if a heart still pumped inside.

  Samuel reached out a hand, shaky as an elder’s, and placed two fingers on his brother’s neck. Cold skin. No pulse. The shaking crawled up his arm, skimmed over his shoulders, and settled deep inside, until his very soul shook.

  “Noo!” Anguish tore out his throat. How could this be? This man, this warrior, gone? Just like that?

  He pulled Inoli into his arms and rocked back and forth. Back and forth. The same motion he used to put Grace to sleep. He might be sobbing. Hard to tell. He didn’t hear anything but a rushing noise in his ears and the thudding of his heart. No more would he and his brother run through the woods, hunting for deer and turkey. There’d be no more exchange of knowing glances, speaking of life and God, of what was to come or what had been.

  There’d be no more anything.

  By the time Samuel pulled away, night shadows crept from the woods. He laid his brother back against the tree trunk. Blood from the wound on his own chest had soaked into Inoli’s shirt and blended with his brother’s. He pressed his palm against it and stared at his fingers.

  “Goodbye, my friend.” The ragged voice didn’t sound like his—nor was it, for he’d never be the same again. Why should he expect to sound as before?

  The night was long. The next day never ending. He moved as through a thick fog, stumbling about in a grey mist of grief and pain. He patched up himself and Barton—the other man’s name, he learned—as good as could be expected. Good enough to travel on horseback, anyway. He’d forced Barton to help him bury Inoli … of sorts. With no shovel, nor the strength to dig even if one were available, they stacked rocks atop his body. Samuel fashioned a crude cross of wood and staked it at the head of the pile. Not a usual Cherokee ceremony, but there’d never been anything usual about Inoli to begin with. He was a man unlike any other.

  By the time Samuel retrieved the horses, tied Barton to Inoli’s mount, and tracked down the runaway horse with the money, the day was well spent. But Samuel drove them onward despite the lack of light, putting as much distance between him and the awful hurt behind.

  More than anything, he just wanted to go home.

  Chapter 38

  Eleanor pinned up her hair by the weak light of a newborn day seeping in through the window. Already dressed in one of Biz’s borrowed gowns, all that was left was to slip on her shoes. Today was a new chapter. A whole new story. One she didn’t want to read but determined to plow through anyway. Fitting, really, that she’d walk out the door of this chamber, the one she’d shared with Biz when she first came to Newcastle, into a different life.

  “Yer up early.” Biz’s sleepy voice drifted behind her.

  “I intend an early start.” She t
urned from the window as Biz unwrapped herself from the bed sheets. “Thank you for the gown and, well, for everything. I owe you.”

  Covering a yawn, Biz eyed her from across the room, then left the sleeping Grace behind to stare up into her face. “You ain’t fooling me, Elle Bell. I know that look. Seen it before on bawdy house girls.”

  “What look?”

  Biz lifted her chin. “Yer running away.”

  She frowned. With Biz’s uncanny discernment, she’d have made a fine gypsy fortuneteller. “I would not call it such, but since you have brought it up, yes. I am leaving. And I need your help in securing a horse.”

  “A horse?” Biz cocked her head. “Where do you think yer going?”

  “Charles Towne.”

  Biz snorted. “Of all the hare-brained ideas. What the nippity-skippet for? You won’t last a day on yer own.”

  “Maybe so, but I cannot stay here.” She folded her arms, turning from Biz’s direct gaze. “Not anymore.”

  Biz would have none of it. She scooted around Eleanor, stopping right in front of her. “Why you leaving?”

  The question hit her broadside. There were many reasons, some ridiculous—such as her jealously over Miss Browndell—but others were more valid. She gazed into Biz’s eyes, weighing, measuring. How much should she tell her?

  A sigh deflated her chest. She owed Biz an explanation, especially after her tearful display in the sitting room the previous evening.

  “The truth is that I am not meant for this frontier life. I am not strong like you. Not courageous, despite what Molly says. I am a liability. Do you know how many times Samuel nearly died because of me? It is better for him that I should leave. I will not put his life at risk again.”

  “Pah!” Biz spit the word out like a plug of tobacco. “Yer crazy. Seems to me that man can fend for himself.”

  Of course he could, but he needn’t fend for her as well, not when her ignorance had nearly cost them all their lives. Her stomach twisted. For a moment, she opened the lid on her sorrow, just for a peek, then slammed the cover shut with a shudder. No, better to carry out her plan and deal with the grief later.