The Captive Heart (17 page)

“Go home, boy.” She waved her arms, taking care to keep enough space to escape a wild kick. “Good horse. Off with you now.”

Lips lifted over browned teeth, releasing a great whicker. The horse trotted in a circle, resuming its head bobbing at the stable door.

Eleanor frowned. What was so enticing in the stable? Wohali roamed the woods with Samuel, so the mare couldn’t be the draw. Or was it maybe the mare’s scent left behind that attracted?

The horse snorted, its chest contracting, flesh riding the swell and dip of its ribcage.

“Ahh,” she breathed out. Not the mare, but Wohali’s provender, no doubt. Giving the horse a wide berth, she circled the animal and swung the stable door open, all the while speaking in an even tone. “Are you hungry, poor fellow?”

The horse trotted over to Wohali’s stall and blew out a snort—which surely must be a yes in horsey language.

Eleanor rummaged for a pail, then found the crate housing the sack of oats. Samuel kept the food far from Wohali’s reach. He was particular about how much and what his mount ate, and had been sure to impart that knowledge to her. Something about gorging or foundering or some sort. It hadn’t mattered much to her at the time, so she’d only half-listened, but at least she remembered where he kept the extra feed. She filled the pail partially and returned to Wohali’s stall—then hesitated. Ought she be feeding someone else’s horse in here? What would Samuel say?

Pivoting, she strode from the stable and set the pail outside. Maybe the horse would eat its fill and move on to return to its home.

Another scream rent the air. Grace stood on the porch, pointing like a French Spaniel at the woods.

Eleanor huffed. This was turning into quite the trend today. She followed the line of Grace’s outstretched arm, expecting to see another of the horse’s companions drawn by the smell of oats.

Sunlight dappled from leaf to leaf, nothing more. No other horses. No bears. No … anything, really—except for the finest hairs at the nape of her neck rising up like pricking needles.

She grabbed the bucket and returned it to the stable, then shut the door. Let the thin horse eat in peace. Samuel could deal with it when he returned. She kept her gaze on the trees as she scurried toward the house. Nerves, most likely, but maybe she and Grace should spend the rest of the day in the cabin. An eerie foreboding wrapped around her chest and squeezed, and she upped her pace. She suspected what Samuel had said last week held even truer now.

This place was getting more dangerous every day.

S
amuel traveled the rest of the trail home alone, leaving Inoli to check on his own land—or more like the woman he was interested in—before coming to meet Red Bird. Probably a good thing. It would take his brother a good three weeks to trek to the overhill town of Chota and back, giving Eleanor more than enough time to acclimate not only to the wilds but also to an even wilder-looking man such as Inoli.

Wohali whickered and sidestepped. Not that he blamed the animal. He and his brother had tensed a time or two as well since finding the mangled deer and beaver, but they’d never discovered any more clues as to what had gutted them. Either the bear was more ghost than rogue—or something unknown roamed these woods.

He and Wohali splashed across the creek and up the bank, where he paused. His gut hitched—a sense that’d saved his life many a time. He scanned from tree to familiar tree. Nothing different. So why the unease skittering along every nerve? He slipped from the saddle, sniffing, separating the fragrance of loamy earth from a metallic, almost sulphuric taint. He padded forward a few more steps, and his gaze shot to the ground. Gunpowder sprinkled the earth like a dusting of fear.

Clicking his tongue, he led Wohali to the edge of the trees. Could be nothing. Could be Red Bird tried her hand at target practice in the woods today and dropped her powder horn. Or maybe Grace had stolen the thing and made a game of chase out of it.

Or else … he narrowed his eyes. Had trouble paid a visit in his absence?

The last of the day’s light slanted through the trees, ringing the yard in a murderous glow. Both stable and house doors were shut. Grace’s laughter wafted out the open window. The new lean-to still remained unfinished on the east side. All appeared to be well.

“Come, Wohali.” He tugged the horse onward. “We are old women, you and I.”

But when his boots hit the clearing, he slowed. Hoofprints, smaller, shallower than Wohali’s disturbed the ground, leading to the stable. What the devil?

He tethered his horse, then swung the door wide. Inside, an unfamiliar nicker cut through the growing shadows. A white head bobbed out from Wohali’s stall. His gaze cut to the cabin. Was someone in the house with Red Bird and Grace?

Wheeling about, he stalked halfway across the yard, when a thunder of hooves pounded up the road. He slung the rifle off his back and cocked the hammer by the time McDivitt and two other men—Rafe O’Donnell and Charlie Stane—fanned the yard in front of him.

Samuel cradled the rifle, fighting the urge to point it at McDivitt’s heart, yet keeping it handy. “What you doing on my land, McDivitt?”

Angus tipped his hat. “Good evening to you too, Heath.”

Samuel slid his gaze to Rafe, who turned his head aside, then on to Stane, whose intentions hid behind eyes so grey and lifeless, one wondered if any soul resided within.

He turned back to McDivitt. “I don’t believe you rode all the way out here for a social call.”

“Rafe here’s lookin’ for justice, and I aim to give it to him.” McDivitt nodded toward the man on his left. “Says his horse was stolen. You know anything about that?”

Samuel’s jaw hardened, a muscle twitching up near his ear. He’d spent the past decade trapping animals of all kinds in this wood and beyond in Cherokee country. This snare was ready to bite into his throat.

He glowered at McDivitt. “Why would I?”

A piercing whistle trilled past Rafe’s lips. Hooves trotted out from the stable. The three men slid from their mounts, Rafe jogging over to snag the white horse.

“Well, well.” Yellowed teeth peeked from McDivitt’s beard, and he speared Samuel with a sneer. “Looks like we found our horse thief.”

The spikes of the trap snapped shut. So … trouble
had
paid a visit in his absence today. Lifting the rifle, he clicked the hammer wide open and aimed at McDivitt’s legs. For now. “We both know it wasn’t me. I been out all day.”

“What I know is that you’re not going to shoot me in front of two witnesses, so you might as well put that firearm down.” Angus turned to the thin man with the thinner horse. “Rafe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That your horse?”

The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

McDivitt hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “That your stable?”

Rafe shook his head. “No, sir.”

Angus pivoted and stalked over to the other man. Samuel followed the movement with his barrel. Charlie Stane eyed Angus with a face as blank—and dangerous—as a snake.

“Stane,” said Angus, “whose horse is that?”

“Rafe O’Donnell’s.” Stane’s voice was as cold as his gaze.

“And who’s stable is that?” Once again, McDivitt pointed.

Samuel blew out a breath, long and low. It was either that or start shooting to end such dramatics.

“Samuel Heath’s,” Stane answered.

“So …” McDivitt paced in front of the men, the tails of his riding coat swinging with each step.

Samuel lowered his rifle—but kept it at full cock.

“Mr. Stane,” Angus drawled, “are you swearing as a witness to the recovery of Rafe O’Donnell’s horse, found inside Mr. Heath’s stable?”

Samuel clamped his teeth so tight his jaw ached. He’d never had a run-in with Stane, but it appeared that was about to change. How much had McDivitt paid him?

Stane swiveled his head, training his vacant eyes on Samuel. “I swear.”

“So be it, then.” McDivitt strode to the side of his horse and untied a leather-braided whip hanging from his saddle. “Penalty for horse thieving is a whipping, Heath.”

White hot anger blazed a trail from his gut to his throat. “Quit hiding behind your own version of the law, McDivitt. If all you want is revenge, then say so, and take me on alone … unless you’re afraid. Is that it?”

Angus’s shoulders stiffened as if an arrow pinned him to a wall.

Samuel snorted. Pathetic excuse of a man.

Behind him, the cabin door flew open and little feet beat double-time on wood. He flipped the hammer to half-set and lowered the muzzle to the dirt before he turned.

“Edoda!” Grace scrambled down the porch steps, racing toward him. Her little fair head bobbed—and could just as easily be split wide open if she were caught in this fray. McDivitt might even consider it a score against him.

He held out his hand. “Stop!”

The harsh roar of his voice halted Grace in her tracks. Her face twisted, and huge tears pooled in her widened eyes. “Dada?”

Red Bird dashed out the cabin door, her skirts rippling. “I am so sorry. She got away from me.”

Samuel grimaced. The woman and the girl could have no idea what they were running headlong into. He pivoted, putting his body between the men and his family. “Rafe’s got his horse back. Now ride on out of here. All of you.”

McDivitt advanced, uncoiling the whip. “As a regulator, I’m to uphold the peace. A crime’s been committed. Justice must be served.”

“What crime?” Red Bird’s voice shivered at his back.

McDivitt jutted his jaw. “You might want to step inside, madam.”

A rat couldn’t have been more cornered. If Samuel shot now, he could take out one man, but the others would be on top of him before he could reload. His tomahawk could stop one more, but not before Rafe or Stane struck—and with Grace and Red Bird possibly caught in the crossfire. He worked his jaw, pivoted, angling to keep the men in sight yet also make eye contact with Red Bird. “Do it. Take Grace in the house.”

The lowering sun lit a thousand questions in her gaze. Even so, she grabbed the girl’s hand without giving any voice.

In one swift movement, he swung around and lifted the rifle, pulling the hammer wide and fingering the trigger. “I’m going to give you one more chance, McDivitt. Get off my land—now—before someone gets hurt.”

McDivitt cracked the whip, the report sharp and echoing. “That horse was in your stable. You took it. And as a representative of the law—”

“No, he did not.” Red Bird’s voice breezed past him like an ill wind, prickling along his backbone. Samuel whirled, urging her to silence with his stare.

She ignored him. “I did.”

McDivitt turned toward her. “Did you, now? Hmm. That changes things a bit.”

Samuel’s gut tightened into a knot. Rage simmered, ready to blow.

McDivitt bared his teeth in a grin. “Going to be a shame to mark up that pretty back of yours, Mrs. Heath. Still, the law must be upheld.”

Angus nodded toward Rafe and Stane. “Take her, men.”

Sweat dampened Eleanor’s palms, her grip on Grace’s hand slick. The man with the whip looked down his nose at her—a nose that’d been broken and healed wrong, leaving a crooked hump on the ridge. He wore a beard, labeling him wilder than her husband—or any other man she’d encountered.

The other two men, halfway across the yard, started toward her, their boots scraping along the ground, shaving off layers of her courage with each step. A rope dangled from the hand of one. What had she just confessed to?

She swept Grace behind her and faced the man with the whip, unsure if her voice would work. “I fed and housed a horse. That is all. Is that such a crime?”

The bearded man smiled. “Is the horse yours?”

“No.”

“Then you broke the law, Mrs. Heath. Any and all persons, and I quote”—his gaze drifted upward, as if he read some great tome in the skies—“who shall be indicted and found guilty of stealing any horse, mare, gelding, colt or filly, for the first offense will be punished with the loss of an ear and/or be publicly whipped, not exceeding thirty-nine lashes on the bare back.”

“But I did not steal that horse!” She whirled to Samuel, fighting the desire to run into his arms and bury her head against his shirt, allow him to chase away the fear as he had the bear. “I—I had no idea. I only meant to give it some food and trusted you would know what to do with it when you arrived home.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll take care of this.” His dark eyes flashed at the advancing men. “Stop right there.”

They didn’t—until he pulled out his tomahawk. “I’m not going to let you touch her. We all know this is a false charge.”

The bushy-bearded man laughed. “You ain’t gonna be swinging that blade around. Think of the blood, the mess, the nightmares your pretty wife there will have for years to come … and yer child. She’ll be scarred for life, I imagine.”

Samuel’s shoulders stretched tight. The tomahawk hit the ground as he turned to her. “Take Grace inside. Now!”

The harshness of his tone settled in the hollow of her bones, adding to her fear, and starting a wail from Grace. Eleanor swept up the child, happy to leave this macabre scene.

“Put the girl down, Mrs. Heath.” The man cracked the whip.