The Captive Heart (26 page)

Beckett’s outfitting shop had a line snaked clear out the door. He passed the length of men, keeping to the other side of the road. A few called his name. He merely lifted a hand in greeting and kept eating up ground with his boots.

The closer he drew to Grey’s Tavern, the more determination it took to keep going. His step hitched only once. At the door. When the scent of rum reached out, taunting, tempting. Saliva rained at the back of his mouth. It would be easy to give in. Just one drink. Only one, and leave it at that. His jaw clenched. That was a lie he’d bought one too many times. Still … what made him think he was strong enough to resist this time?

Oh God, help me.

He swallowed and lurched through the door.

Though still daylight outside, night shadowed the room, windows so coated with soot and grease and the shame of men that light didn’t stand a chance. Did he? He hadn’t set foot in here since—his stomach clenched.

Ignoring the catcalls from a table of men seated in the corner, he stalked to the bar.

“Well, well, look what dragged in the front door. Never thought to see you in here again.” Nehemiah Grey slammed a mug down on the counter in front of him. “What’s it to be?”

Samuel worked his jaw. One word, and that mug would brim over with ale. Foamy. Tangy. He stared, long and hard.

Then shoved the mug away. He pinned Grey with a fierce glower. “Information.”

Grey’s lips parted. Teeth—what few remained—hung from his gums like crooked fence posts. “That’s more expensive than my best rot gut. You buyin’?”

Reaching inside a pouch at his waist, he pulled out a leather sack. The coins inside jingled as it hit the counter.

Grey’s arm struck like lightning, the pouch disappearing behind the counter before the last jingle faded. “What makes you think I know anything?”

Samuel widened his stance. “Secrets pour out with every bottle you serve. I just want to know if anyone’s rode in from Charles Towne with a mind to go to Keowee.”

Grey cursed so sharply Samuel feared one of the man’s teeth might break loose and hit him like a shot.

The bartender’s gaze narrowed. “You know as well as I do, Heath, that half the trappers out here pass by Keowee. I could name more’n a dozen men without even trying.”

“Not talking about a trapper.”

Grey sniffed, his brows rising with the action. “Why would anyone other than a trapper or a half-blood venture a trip out there?”

Samuel studied the man a moment more, then wheeled about. Grey didn’t know anything. Sutton hadn’t either. It appeared that perhaps the negotiator gave him the slip and wasn’t coming through Newcastle.

He stalked out the tavern door, foul mood sinking into rancidity. Maybe his time would be better spent at Keowee. Better for him—but maybe not so much for Red Bird.

E
leanor leaned her head against the hickory and closed her eyes, fanning herself with a handkerchief. She’d thought it warm at the cabin, but down here in the valley, heat took on a whole new meaning, like dragon’s breath, all sticky and moist. Good thing Grace slept, or she’d be whining. Eleanor peeked open one eye, checking to make sure the girl yet curled beneath the shade of Samuel’s canvas shelter. Light hair sprawled over a soft piece of buckskin, right where she’d laid her.

Good. She shut her eyes once more and went back to deciphering all the bits of information she’d learned of Samuel. Nothing added up, not satisfactorily. The beginnings of a headache throbbed in her temple. Could be from the heat, but more likely from the conflict between what she’d heard of Samuel—and what she knew of him from experience.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Heath.”

Her eyes shot open. Angus McDivitt stared down at her, an arm’s length away. How had he drawn so close without her hearing?

She rose, but he crouched, pulling her down to the quilt along with him. “Din’t mean to disturb you. Is yer husband around?”

The pounding at her temple rolled out like a thunderstorm, the beat dangerous. Clearly the man could see that Samuel was absent. “I … I am certain he shall return soon.”

A lump moved along the man’s lower cheek, lodging toward the back of his jaw, then slowly a smile spread. Brown juice coated his teeth. “Shame he left you here alone. Unprotected. Course you ought to be used to that by now, eh?”

She remembered well what it’d felt like to be left alone with Samuel those first few days. Cold fear, always present, the wondering, the
what
ifs. But here, now, breathing in the sweaty, almost fishy odor of this man, his gaze boldly holding on to hers, the wretched twist in her belly drove her to the edge of the quilt. Where
was
Samuel?

McDivitt sank fully onto the blanket, stretching out his legs and leaning against the trunk she’d abandoned. “Maybe I’ll just wait for him then.”

Eleanor forced her breathing to remain even. This was awkward. Would the man just sit there and stare at her until Samuel magically appeared? And if he chose to, what could she do about it?

She crushed the handkerchief in her hand, weary of playing the victim. No. This man would not get the better of her.

Nor would Mr. Heath.

Tucking her legs beneath her, she sat straighter, higher, positioning herself to look down upon the man where he slouched. “Mr. McDivitt, I know that you and my husband have some differences. I am wondering, though, if you would tell me what they are?”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s he told you?”

“Nothing.”

The lump moved to his other cheek before he answered. “Not surprised, really. You married a snake in the grass, and snakes are silent killers.”

She curved her lips into an encouraging smile, one she often used with young, frustrated charges. “I should like to hear what you have to say.”

“Well, well. A lady who values truth.” He eyed her with an entirely different gleam in his eyes. “Sure, missy, I’ll tell you what happened, but once you know, you might not want to go back home with him. Ever. And if that’s the case”—he leaned toward her—“I want you to know I’ll protect you. I couldn’t save Mariah, but you’ve still got a chance.”

Her smile faded. “I am not asking for protection, sir. I am asking for facts, nothing more.”

A drip of brown leaked out the corner of his mouth, and she willed it to disappear into his beard. To have it hang there, glistening with afternoon light, turned her stomach.

“All right,” he said, finally. “I came to Newcastle long before Heath. Shoot, wasn’t even known as Newcastle back then. Wasn’t known as anything. It was the sweat of my brow, along with Stane and Renner, what built this town.” At last his tongue darted out, and he licked away the horrid juice. “We fought off Injuns, sickness, a winter snow so deep it near buried the horses. You’d think with the prosperity I brought, the civilization, holding the ground against those savages, why, the government ought to grant a respectable citizen like me the rights to the acreage all around here.”

He stared at her as if he’d made some kind of grand revelation.

She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I am sorry, Mr. McDivitt, but what does the government have to do with you and Mr. Heath?”

He turned aside and spit out a thick wad the size and shape of a hairball. For one horrified moment, she feared he’d hit the quilt, until the thwack of juice met grass.

He swiped his mouth. Mud-colored liquid smeared across the back of his hand, and he wiped it on his thigh. “The governor awarded Heath the land for service in the French ’n’ Indian Wars. It’s your man what owns all the acreage from here to Keowee.”

“But …” She shook her head, which didn’t do much for her headache or her comprehension. “I thought that land belonged to the Cherokee? Why would those people agree to give it to Mr. Heath?”

He cocked his head. “You really don’t know nothin’, do ya? Yer man
is
part Injun. Lived with ’em the better part of his life.”

The handkerchief fell from her hand. If she listened hard enough, she’d hear her father laughing at her all the way from the grave. She’d married a … a Cherokee? Allied herself to a savage when all her father had asked of her was that she take on a gentleman?

McDivitt laughed, grating, almost a chirrup, and ended with a hacking cough. “I ain’t even told you the half of it yet.”

She swallowed. Did she even want to hear more?

“Heath come to Newcastle back in ’66, thinking to live out yonder like a heathen.” He swung out his arm, stained fingers fluttering toward the blue hills behind him. “And he did, for a time. But that changed when he first laid eyes on Mariah.”

The lines on McDivitt’s brow hardened into deep ruts, and a foul curse ripped out of his throat. “Just like the land, she shoulda been mine, too. For always.”

Then, like a spent spring tempest, his eyes brightened, the lines softened, and he looked past her, as if the woman stood right behind her shoulder. Something wasn’t right about that gleam. Something wasn’t right about this man.

The pounding in her head traveled to her chest, and her breath hitched.

“Ahh, Mariah. Battin’ those eyelashes. Swaying those skirts. Hair fine and soft as a whisper.” His gaze shot to her, sparking. “Heath stole her right out from under me. Forced himself on her. Made her marry him. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

“I married Mr. Heath to care for Grace, nothing more.” She stood and retreated off the quilt, the turn of the discussion not at all to her liking. “Thank you for the information, but this conversation is finished. I think you should wait elsewhere for my husband.”

He shot to his feet and reached for her, hands clamping on her upper arms, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath. “You don’t think that’s why Mariah married him, too? He’s the one what got her with child. He ruined her life. He’s a destroyer. A thief. Always taking. Taking! And he’ll take you, too.”

He shook her, and her teeth rattled from the force.

“Let me go!”

“I told her … I told you … Mariah, you got to listen.” He shoved his face into hers, his breath condensing on her cheeks like a rash. “Don’t go with him. Come away with me.”

She wrenched and wriggled. The man was mad. “Mr. McDivitt, please!”

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer. “Shh, shh. He won’t know. He never did, did he?”

He crushed her to his chest, mashing her cheek against his waistcoat, his heavy breathing loud in her ear—

But the sharp click of a cocked rifle was even louder behind him.

“You’ve got one warning, McDivitt, and that’s a mercy.” Samuel’s voice was quiet, steady, and altogether chilling. “Get away from my wife.”

Rage painted everything scarlet. The sky. The hickory. McDivitt. Samuel stood rock still, nothing but a faint puff of breeze shoving back the hair against his collar. Would this never end? His finger pressed against the trigger. Just a bit more pressure, a twitch … and he could finish it. But he couldn’t take the risk of hitting Red Bird. Nor could he play God, sending McDivitt to an eternity he wouldn’t wish on even him.

Angus reached his hands to the sky and pivoted.

Samuel narrowed his eyes. What was this? McDivitt never yielded, not on purpose.

Red Bird dashed to the wagon, away from Angus—and away from him. Keeping the muzzle trained on McDivitt’s chest, Samuel sidestepped, gaining a view of Red Bird as well. “Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. The imprint of one of McDivitt’s buttons on her cheek and the way she gripped the side of the wagon for support belied her denial.

He slid his gaze to McDivitt. He could let fly a shot now and ask for forgiveness later … but that still didn’t make it right.

Angus tsked. “You gonna shoot me in front of the woman? Won’t that be a pretty picture for her to remember.”

Ahh. So that was the man’s game. Goading him into playing the beast. He took his finger off the trigger, tripped the hammer, and cradled the rifle. “My wife is no concern of yours. Now get out of here. You got no business with me.”

Angus lowered his hands, folding his arms over his chest. “Now there yer wrong.”

It was a fight, but he kept from rolling his eyes. Except for a pint or a loose skirt, there was nothing Angus liked better than to point out when Samuel was wrong—and it usually took him three ways until Sunday to expound on the matter. “Say your piece, man.”

McDivitt rocked on his heels, clearly enjoying the thought that he might have something Samuel wanted. “A rider came in ’bout an hour ago. Needs a guide to Keowee come morning.”

Samuel didn’t bat an eye, just kept his gaze steady—but his thoughts took off like a wild stallion. Was this finally the negotiator he’d been waiting for? Made sense, to ride in when Newcastle was a hive of activity, use the trading and outfitting day as a camouflage.

Or … he peered at Red Bird from the corner of his eye. Was this simply a way for McDivitt to separate him from his wife?

He breathed in suspicion along with the stink of stale tobacco stained on Angus’s shirt. “What’s that got to do with me? There’s plenty of men in town who can guide.”

Angus smirked, the action rippling through his beard. “You think any of them will be conscious by sunrise?”