The Captive Heart (20 page)

Crushing the paper into a wad, he met Rafferty’s pale blue stare, hating the English all over again. “Fine. I’ll leave first light.”

“No.” Rafferty sniffed, sucking up the drips of sweat above his upper lip. “We leave within the hour.”

“We?”

“The man I’m after is like no other. Violent. Cunning. Reminds me a lot of you, actually.” A grin slashed across Rafferty’s face. “At any rate, it will take the lot of us to bring him in.”

Days, maybe weeks, with this man? And McDivitt? Samuel shook his head. “No. I go alone. With this many men tromping around in the woods, you might as well add some drummers and a fife. If the fellow you’re after is as good as you say, we’ll never find him that way.”

Rafferty’s shoulders lifted. “You’re the tracker. That’s your worry.”

“You can’t tie a man’s legs together and expect him to run!”

“The crown expects loyalty, sir, not excuses.” Rafferty’s eyes narrowed to slits, releasing a fresh cloudburst of sweat-beads rolling down his temples. “Are you refusing to comply with your duty?”

Duty? He smirked. Duty to a capricious ruler who lived halfway around the world?

But the wad of paper in his hand weighed heavy, like a boulder, immovable and crushing. The document was more than a summons or a simple command.

It could very well be his death warrant.

A wasp buzzed near Eleanor’s cheek, the sting of her last encounter still radiating pain on the back of her hand. Horrid creatures. She eased back from the window, far enough that the wasp lost interest and zigzagged away from the porch.

Outside, five men remained mounted on horses. She knew one—the brute, McDivitt. Only the British soldier stood on the ground, an arm’s length in front of Samuel. Detecting their words was impossible, but she didn’t need to. Samuel’s shirt stretched taut across his shoulders—his I-will-not-be-moved stance, one she’d come to learn the hard way when asking for a visit to Molly and Biz.

The redcoat towered a head above Samuel, but only because of his ridiculous hat. Eleanor lifted a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed away a kink. Since when had she thought a British uniform ridiculous?

She approached the window again, comparing Samuel’s plain, yet functional clothing to the proper military suit in front of him. The redcoat’s smothering wool versus Samuel’s loose-breathing linen. The audacious color rivaling Samuel’s earthy tones. One tight and buttoned and regulated. The other homespun and practical and handsome.

Handsome
? She stiffened. Surely she’d been out in the woods too long to think an overbearing, demanding ruffian pleasing to the eye.

Samuel ended the stalemate with a nod, then spun on his heel and stalked to the cabin. His back toward the redcoat, he couldn’t see the sneer lifting the soldier’s upper lip.

But Eleanor did. Whatever these men wanted, it couldn’t be good.

She turned from the window as Samuel blew through the door like a brewing tempest. Grace looked up from her endless stacking of blocks but must have decided an annoyed father was less interesting than the crude pieces of wood. Her little fingers grabbed another block.

Samuel strode to a shelf of earthenware and pulled down the jar of the dried mixture he called pemmican, then proceeded to stuff a handful into a leather pouch. His muscles flexed and bulged with his jerky movements—a sure sign she ought fade into the background.

But morbid curiosity nudged her a step forward. “What is happening?”

He tied the pouch to his belt, then wheeled about and crossed to a chest near the bed. He snatched down a key from a peg on the wall, then bent to unlock the padlock, pausing to slip his gaze toward her before opening the lid. “I’ll be gone for a while. Stay near the house.”

This was new. Usually he simply disappeared into the woods and came back unannounced. Why the forewarning this time? She dared another step. “How long will you be gone?”

He turned to the chest, his long hair swinging against his collar, the ends bleached by the sun. He pulled out another tomahawk, a blade the size of a child’s leg, and retrieved enough balls and powder to take down a brigade of dragoons.

Alarm clenched Eleanor’s stomach. He never went into the woods like this.

He wore the tomahawks at each hip, ready to yank out and throw in tandem. He shoved the knife into a sheath he’d added to the strap crossing his chest. Retrieving his rifle, he swung it over his shoulder, then gasped when it rested against his back. He strode over to Grace and picked her up, holding her face-to-face so that her feet dangled midair, well away from the weapons. “Behave yourself, little one.”

Then he set her down and stamped toward the door.

Clearly the man was avoiding her question. “Mr. Heath! When shall I expect your return?”

He turned toward her, a feral glimmer in his dark eyes. “Why? You going to miss me?”

The tips of her ears burned. Must he always tease in such a fashion? She fought the urge to go poke the big bully in the chest. “How long do you think Grace and I can survive on our own?”

The playfulness drained from his gaze—the loss of it like a sudden gust of cold air. “I’ll be gone as long as it takes, not a moment more. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Those men, they are not …” She edged a step closer. “You are not in trouble, are you?”

“Woman, my whole life is a big ball of trouble.” He huffed. “But no, as long as I do what they say, I’ll be fine. As will you and Grace.”

“What is it they want?”

He studied her for a moment, and she wondered if he’d answer or just turn and walk out the door.

Slowly, he retrieved a small wad of paper and tossed it to her.

Bits of wax fell to the floor as she smoothed the paper open. Precise penmanship scrolled at center:

Eleanor read the missive twice. So. Not only did her husband trap animals, but apparently men as well. Was that how he’d earned that medal in the stable? It all flew in the face of the patriotic sentiments he sometimes let slip. She lifted her face and studied him instead of the letter. Who was this man?

His slouch hat cast his eyes in shadow, a day’s growth of stubble shaded his jaw. Her gaze followed the angle of his rifle strap, crossing his chest and down to his hips, where the awful war-axes hung. Then lower, down the length of his deerskin leggings and on to the leather-wrapped hilt of another knife handle sticking out the top of his booted moccasins. God help the man he was tracking.

She bit her lip.
And, God, please, help Samuel.

“Be careful.” Her voice sounded tight, thin, tied to a whisper of fear. “Please.”

He tipped his head, his swath of hair falling to one side. “I might almost get the impression that you care.”

“Of course I care!”

“Do you, now?” He advanced toward her, the tomahawk handles bouncing against his thighs, the creak of the leather strap and swish of his breeches loud in the room. Even Grace watched him move.

Eleanor retreated to the wall.

He didn’t stop until the tips of his boots touched the hem of her skirt. The gleam in his eyes shivered down her back and settled in her legs.

“Mr. Heath, please.” She darted right.

He threw out his arm, resting his big palm against the wall and blocking her escape. “If I remember right, it was Samuel not too long ago.”

Fire lit her face, and she dodged to the left.

His other arm shot up, trapping her between the two. His warm breath fanned against her lips. Surely burn marks would mar her cheeks.

His hand caught a loose curl of her hair. He tucked it behind her ear, so gentle, so light. Was she dreaming?

No. His fingers brushed along her earlobe, and she trembled—but not from fear. A strange, wholly new, wholly unsettling twinge tightened her belly.

“I promised you on our wedding day that I wouldn’t touch you.” His husky voice wrapped around her like a warm embrace, pulling her toward him. “Do you want that to change?”

A foreign desire ran along every nerve. She froze, unsure if she could speak or even breathe. Afraid if she did, everything would change. Forever.

“No,” she forced the word past lips she was terrified to open.

“Because if you do”—he brushed his thumb along the curve of her neck, leaving a trail of fire—“all you need to do is ask, Tatsu’hwa.”

His brown eyes held her in place, demanding she understand his meaning—and when she did, the implication stole her last bit of breath. Want and need charged the thin space between them, but whose? His or hers?

He turned so fast, a whoosh riffled against her face. He stalked to the door, then glanced over his shoulder. “Mind what I said. Stay close to the house.”

She stood there for a moment, all heat and life and air sucked from the room—until she heard his horse tear out from the stable.

Shoving from the wall, she snatched up Grace on her way to the window. The little girl clung tight for the wild ride. Samuel led the men down the road, and Eleanor wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Why care now whether the man stayed or didn’t? He was hardly around much, anyway.

One horse lagged behind. McDivitt’s. Once Samuel was out of sight, he turned, his gaze shooting to the window like a musket ball—and stared right at her.

Eleanor yanked the burlap shut and darted to the door, Grace squealing from the bouncy steps. She shot the latch, locking the entrance.

So many emotions roiled in her gut she set the girl down and pressed a hand to her stomach. This time there was no guarantee Samuel would come back.

Could she really manage without him?

S
amuel’s gaze swept the forest floor. Wohali lagged behind on his tether. So did Samuel’s thoughts.
Focus. Focus!
By now, an entire day after leaving home, he should’ve forgotten the feel of Red Bird’s hair between his fingers, the softness of her skin, the vulnerability in eyes as blue as Marshall Creek at sunrise. English or not, the woman crossed all kinds of barriers he’d erected to hide behind. Walls he’d never expected to be breached. He should set a stronger guard around his heart.

His foot snapped a twig. Blast! He should also be engaging all his senses in the hunt. A scowl weighted his brow. His entire life was built on a shaky foundation of
shoulds.

Behind him, maybe thirty yards eastward, a shot rang out from Barton’s Hollow, the echo spreading like the ripples in a pond. Samuel stifled a growl. Fools. First the lighting of a fire last night. Now this? Unless the traitor was five or six miles out, he’d know they were closing in—which meant the man would either double back or set an ambush.

Taking care to avoid any more sticks—though at this point, did it really matter?—he plodded upward, traversing an old buffalo trace cut between towering pine and oak, scouring the ground as he went. If the man was bent on heading into Cherokee country—which is what he’d do in the same situation—this would be the most likely route.

Hold on.

He dropped into a squat. The sharp edges of a boot print, inches from a rock, cut into the dirt.

Setting his tongue against his teeth, he pushed out air in a whippoorwill call. Three times. Then took the time to pull out a piece of jerky from the pouch on his belt.

Soon a white shirt atop a black horse trotted up the trail. A day’s growth of beard added a shadow to Rafferty’s ruddy complexion. There was no stopping the scarlet splotches on the man’s face, but at least he’d given in to reason and removed the red coat.

The major slid from the saddle. “What have you got?”

“Over here.” He led Rafferty to the rock on the trail and crouched. “Boot print.”

“Humph,” Rafferty snorted. “Doesn’t look like much to me.”

Samuel pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from rolling his eyes. “Look closer. The edge is sharp on one side only because the man hit this rock with the left side of his foot, compensating on the right with his full weight. You won’t find a full boot print, not after three days. You’re lucky I saw this one, what with the critters roaming this wood. I’d say this is your man, Blacking. He’s heading west, to Cherokee lands.”

Rafferty stood, rubbing his knuckles over his chin. As he was ordinarily clean-shaven, the growth had to be itchy. A wicked grin tugged at Samuel’s mouth. The man’s discomfort ought not please him, but it did.

“Tell me, Mr. Heath, why would a man choose death by torture instead of an honorable hanging?”

Honorable? Samuel snorted as he straightened. “Don’t matter how death comes. It’s never dignified.”

Rafferty shrugged. “I suppose I should expect no less from a traitor.”

The word circled overhead, like a hawk to the kill. Samuel turned from Rafferty and strode to Wohali, feigning a search through a pack on the back of his saddle. Better to keep the major looking at anything but his face. Secrets had a way of surfacing if stared at long enough.