“Greetings, Catahecassa.”
“You look well today.”
Wenonah stroked a hand over her unborn child without reply.
“I bring a gift.” He lowered a sack from his shoulders and pulled it open. “It is a venison haunch for you. Last night I brought down a deer with one arrow. Now you will have plenty to eat until the child comes.” His gaze roved to her belly and slowly slid upward.
Wenonah folded her hands over her child. “It is a kind thought, Catahecassa, but unnecessary. I have plenty to eat. In fact, I was about to clean this rabbit.” She raised a hand and pointed toward the stiff creature hanging by its legs from a tree branch only yards away.
“But it is my offering to you. You can dry the meat and save it for later.”
“I am too busy to do that now.”
He frowned. “With what do you busy yourself?”
She shrugged, hoping he didn’t think her nervous. “Oh, many things. I make clothing and collect moss for my baby. I ready the cradleboard. Many things ...” She spread her hands as if the list were too long to name.
“My sister has things she no longer uses now that her children are older. You have only to tell me, and I will bring you whatever you need.”
Wenonah blinked away the offer as she glanced down to her feet. With a gathered breath, she looked up again. “Thank you for your thoughts, Catahecassa, but I can think of nothing I need. My husband left me with some things the raiders did not spoil.” She frowned slightly, reminding him that his own brothers were among the warriors who murdered the trapper and burned her cabin.
“Still, you must accept the venison.”
She dare not accept it. Since her husband died, Catahecassa had made his interest known, and he had brought gift after gift, which she had declined. This venison haunch—however much the thought of roasting it made her tongue long for a taste—was the largest yet. If she were to accept it, it would be a sign of her acceptance of his suit.
“No, thank you, Catahecassa. I cannot. Now, if you will excuse me, the sun is hot. I must take care of the rabbit.”
His expression stiffened, and her refusal left a cool glitter in his eyes. He gave a sharp nod. “I hope that when you hunger, you will remember my offer. I will come then if you call. You would not go hungry with Catahecassa providing for you.” He shot another glance at her belly. “Nor would this trapper’s child.”
Anger boiled up inside her. “My child shall be healthy and provided for. I will see to it.”
His eyes softened as he seemed to realize his error. He dipped his head in a nod. “Yes. You will be a good mother.”
“Thank you.” She turned to attend the rabbit, indicating he should leave.
He picked up the bag of venison and slung it again over his shoulder. “Minawaa giga-waabamin, Wenonah. I will see you again.”
As he turned and strode up the trail, she lowered the rabbit, and her shoulders slumped. The warriors had spared her when they burned out her cabin and killed her man. Would they do so again if they discovered she harbored one of their great enemies? No. Catahecassa’s dark, broad shoulders disappeared through the foliage of the forest. She knew him well. He would be back, and if he discovered the white soldier in her care, he would kill them both.
Chapter 4
“MOIRA,” LACHLAN WHISPERED HIS golden-haired wife’s name as he had so many times before, loving her, but the cool touch on his forehead lifted. He opened his eyes. Not Moira.
The dark-eyed woman knelt beside him, and for a moment some scent softer and sweeter than his own stink brushed past him. She stared into his eyes then moved back, giving him room. The feathery brush of her hair swept across his arm, sending a life-giving sensation rushing over him.
He closed his eyes and reached for his voice. “Thank ye, lass.”
The sense of her moving again made him open his eyes. She had only reached for the bowl. She held it to his lips again. One gentle hand moved beneath his neck and helped him raise his head.
He was more awake now, and he breathed in deeply of her scent, but it was quickly spoiled by the broth which this time smelled like fresh meat. The multiple sensations swirled through his brain, and the result made him hunger. He drank greedily so that she had to tip the bowl faster.
She murmured something in her tongue, the tone a bit like scolding. Her brow bent as she pulled the bowl back. He forced a smile.
“I ken. Ye’ve ne’er seen such a glutton.”
“Hunger good. Food give strength.” She nodded at his leg.
His chest tightened, and he knew his surprise must show. “So ye ken what I’m a-sayin.”
She gave a nod then rose and took the bowl away.
“How long has it been?”
“Two day. Fever break today.”
He must be improving, yet his leg ached like it had been cut off, hot and heavy. He laid a hand on it and touched an unfamiliar wrap. He stared at the cabin roof over his head then looked around the room. It was constructed in the English way, with notched logs joined at the corners. He barely remembered coming inside. A disaster of some type had charred one wall and the edge of the roof straight through, but hides covered the hole.
“Whose place is this?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “It belong to my husband, Abraham Wolsey.” She turned away again and busied herself with some task on a mat on the floor.
“Yer husband, aye?” No man had been about. Was she lying? In his earlier delirium, he’d thought he heard voices somewhere distant. Perhaps it was her man. Yet the words had been indistinguishable, foreign. Would an Indian woman make up such a name as Abraham Wolsey? “Where is he then?”
She worked with a tool, punching holes in leather, and did not look up or answer for some time. He finally rested his head on the floor, staring at the ceiling. She must have her own reasons for not answering.
“He is there.” Lachlan turned to see where she spoke of. She nodded toward the door. “In ground.”
He squinted as he took her meaning and swallowed against the pinch in his throat. She abruptly laid aside her work and rose. In three short steps, she was at the door and disappeared through it.
Lachlan sighed. What had happened to the man? That he was dead, and that Lachlan had upset her by asking pressed against his conscience. Moira’s sigh drifted through his thoughts, the one she gave when he had blundered. Or ... maybe he interpreted the situation wrongly. Who knew whether or not she’d killed the man herself? He could not have been dead long, for the woman had not gotten pregnant by herself.
A while later she returned carrying her hide bucket. She brought a dipper and lowered herself before Lachlan. He held up a hand, stopping her. With a struggle, he pushed himself upright on the bearskin and leaned against the wall. He cleared his throat and allowed her to offer him a sip. Her eyes fastened on him but lowered once he finished drinking and raised his head. Who was she? She moved aside.
“Do ye have a name then?” His question stopped her from rising.
“I am Wenonah.”
“Wenonah,”—he dipped his head—“thank ye for saving my life.”
“It is not yet saved.” She dropped the dipper into the bucket and pushed to her feet.
No, not saved yet.
He thought of the voices again. They had seemed real, but he usually only dreamed of Moira. “Ye have no one to help ye here? Are there others somewhere about?”
She returned to her work on the mat, but her glance flicked his way. “I need no help.”
Stubborn woman. Moira had been like that. She’d insisted that it was too soon to call for the midwife. Little did either of them know the bairn intended to come so early.
Lachlan shook off the painful memory. Did this woman Wenonah understand what was in store for her? “Yer to have a wee one.”
Wenonah paused in her work and laid a hand on her stomach. Her brow tweaked ever so slightly, hinting at a moment’s uncertainty. She nodded. “Yes. Abraham will not see his child.”
“’Tis sorry I am.”
“Sorry?”
“For yer loss.”
She gathered her tools from the mat and put them away. “He was old and did not think a child would yet be his.”
His age must’ve taken him. “I thought I heard voices while I slept.”
She jerked around, and her eyes darted over him and to the door. “Catahecassa. Shawnee. Very dangerous. He come back.”
Lachlan sat straighter, his nerves tingling. “Ye’re certain of this?”
She nodded. “He want ...” Her dark skin turned an even richer shade, and she moved to the fireplace. A few small logs and branches lay beside the hearth. She arranged them neatly inside. No wonder she did not fear him. She had this other man, this dangerous Shawnee warrior, watching out for her. Lachlan needed more information, and he could think of only one question to draw it out.
“Ye get a new husband, eh?” He grinned when she looked back.
Her fist tightened on a stick, and she scowled. “I no want Catahecassa. He keep coming. Bring gifts. I take baby and go away where he never find me.”
So ... this Catahecassa was a plague to her then. Still, her description of the man, that he was dangerous, did not ease his concerns. “When do ye expect to have the bairn?” Lachlan allowed a tender inflection to creep into his voice.
But this time she kept her back to him and did not answer. Wise girl, Wenonah. For I am your enemy still.
The day passed away as Lachlan woke for periods but slept much. Wenonah changed the dressing again, and this time the marks around the bullet wound seemed less livid. Ugly all the same, but not as frightening as at first. She talked little, only telling him when to shift or what she intended to do—if words were necessary. Lachlan did not broach the subject of her child or the Shawnee again.
The next day, Wenonah disappeared for a long time. He began to think she had made good on her word to go away. Perhaps she would do so now, before the baby came, thereby avoiding any further contact with either him or the Shawnee. Loneliness descended, which he tried to ignore. He had been strangely comforted by her presence, yet it was best she left him alone. He would heal well enough in time. Soon he must get to Fort Pitt and discover if any of his brigade survived—or if, indeed, the fort still stood.
Just when he believed he truly would be left to tend himself, she returned with a batch of fish in a basket of reeds. She moved slowly, her expression wan as she retrieved a trencher. “I go clean fish.” A moment later, she slipped outside again.
Lachlan ground his jaw. Not only did she have herself to care for, but now she was taking care of him too. He was the one who needed to move on, sooner rather than later. Tomorrow he would leave this place and continue to Fort Pitt. Better to put the pregnant woman and the Shawnee behind him. If the warrior came again, as Wenonah said he would, Lachlan would be nearly defenseless. He’d not seen his Brown Bess or sword since he lay in the woods. She must have taken them, but where had she hidden them? He shifted his wounded leg and grimaced. No weapon and little strength. The Shawnee would have little trouble overpowering him. Then what would happen to Wenonah? What would the Shawnee do to her when he discovered she’d harbored his enemy?
Lachlan shifted his leg again. Moving carefully, he turned to his side and reached for the staff. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he pulled himself upright. His blood rushed, and he had to pause, gripping the staff with whitened knuckles until his leg stopped burning and the pain settled into a more temperate throb. With halting steps, he walked across the floor and pushed open the door. The daylight nearly blinded him. He blinked a moment then saw her standing there at a makeshift table, watching him. The cabin sat in an area of tall trees and a few stumps scattered amid matted grass. A couple of hand-made tools hung on the side of the building, and a hoe leaned against it. To the west, a small garden patch was turned and growing scraggly vines. Corn stalks lay crushed on the ground.
He looked to her again, and Wenonah faced him, as if she’d been following his perusal of her things.
“They trample garden.”
“Who?”
“Raiders who kill my man.”
He jerked with surprise. So age hadn’t taken her husband.
She laid a fish on the table where some flies buzzed around entrails. With a push of her knife, she slit its glistening belly.
“Where is my Bess? My gun?”
She stuck her fingers into the slit she’d made and drew out the fish’s insides.
“I willna hurt ye, but if there are raiders about—even this Shawnee ye told me of—then I must have my gun.”
Now her dark eyes flashed up. She poured a stream of water over the fish, rinsing it clean, and laid it on her trencher.
“Yer in no danger from me, Wenonah. I only want my gun. Tomorrow I’ll leave ye in peace.”
She paused and gave him a slow study. She nodded to the north. “I bury under leaves behind cabin.”
He nodded and took a step in that direction.
“I get gun and long knife.” She swiped her hands down her dress and hurried on silent feet around the cabin while Lachlan leaned on his staff. She returned hauling the weapons as well as his powder supply and—perhaps most surprising—his shoes. She paused for a moment as if considering her wisdom then stepped forward. “I put inside.”
He gave a nod.
Lachlan took a slow walk toward the fish table as he waited for her to return. His leg had more strength than before. If she redressed the wound in the morning, and if he were careful, he could make it to Fort Pitt by the next nightfall or perhaps the following. The fort couldn’t be far away now. They’d been less than thirty miles from it when the Indians ambushed the regiments. Now he must not be half that distance. Wenonah would know.
When she returned, he offered his thanks with a smile. “Wenonah, do ye ken how far away Fort Pitt is?”
She pointed into the distance and arched a hand a portion of the way across the sky. “A walk of the sun from so ... to so.” She looked at him. “Without wound.”
Only a few hours without his wound holding him back. But with the wound? She moved past him and retrieved the trencher of fish. Lachlan picked up the empty basket and followed her. The fish smelled better than he did.
“Wenonah, have ye a pot of water I could wash with?”
They ducked inside the low door frame, and she set the fish down next to the hearth then turned to him. “I fetch water.”
He nodded. He hated having her run another errand for him, but what else could he do? She seemed happy to help. Maybe she wished he smelled better too.
An hour later, the water had been sprinkled with a generous amount of dried herbs and heated over the fire. Lachlan carried it outside. He scrubbed the grime from his body and doused his head. He also washed out his shirt and splashed the remaining water over his feet. His bandage wasn’t wetted too badly, and Wenonah had promised to change it when he finished anyway.
Tired from the exercise, Lachlan felt better, nevertheless. His shirt would take some time to dry. Wenonah would have to endure a half-dressed man lying about her cabin for the remainder of the day. He entered to the scent of fish baking in the hot coals.
“Well now, that feels better, and isna that fish yer cookin makin my stomach yearn?”
She glanced up and away quickly, and Lachlan suddenly felt self-conscious for embarrassing her with his chest bared naked in front of her. But her skin flushed becomingly, and he could understand the Shawnee’s interest in the lass. He caught his own gaze lingering.
Pulling it away, he spied the gun and sword leaning against the wall by his bed, and hobbled over to inspect them. He set aside his staff and lowered himself then picked up the Bess and inspected the mechanisms. Nothing appeared damaged from its time in the river or wood. He would find a bit of cloth to clean her and pour out his powder to dry in the meantime.
Wenonah rose from the fireside and brought him a trencher of food. He looked up at her as she
held it out. “Yer a God-send, lass. I mean it.” He smiled and accepted the food.
She returned to her own meal, and they ate in silence. With furtive glances, Lachlan watched her. She was a comely woman, young, and healthy despite her current situation. That she had married some old trapper puzzled him. How had such an arrangement occurred? Had she been in dire straits, depending on him for aid? Lachlan would never know. After tomorrow morning, they would never meet again.
When they’d finished eating, she cleaned up from their meal, scrubbed the trenchers, and set them by the hearth until tomorrow. Finally, she went to her bed and lay down. Lachlan had already lowered himself to the bearskin, resting shirtless on the soft fur. The fire had died to ash, and only a coal or two glowed. Lachlan watched them until he fell asleep.
Moira came to him then. Ah, but it had been too long since he’d seen her. Too many hours. Tonight, her eyes were playful again, and her long blond hair blew around her shoulders. Moira, darlin, yer wearing yer weddin dress. Let me dance with ye. He twirled her around, lifting her off her bare feet. Her laughter bubbled out, and Lachlan laughed too. He nuzzled her neck with his beard and kissed her. Yet it wasn’t as though he could taste her enough. She groaned, or was it him? Lachlan frowned. The edges of the dream blurred, and panic rose in his chest as it always did when their time was over. I’m not done lovin ye, Moira. Please dinna leave just yet. But she released his hands and floated away, her bare feet dancing over grass and wildflowers. The moaning grew louder.
Lachlan opened his eyes to the darkness of a log cabin.
“Aaaah ...” Panting came from across the room.
Wenonah.
Lachlan sat up, staring into the darkness. His heart crashed against his chest. He groped for the staff and wrapped his fingers round it. Wenonah quieted. Did she dream too?
He listened for another minute before shifting his hip to lay himself back down when she groaned again.
“Wenonah.” He pulled himself upright, ignoring the dull ache in his leg, and moved to the fireplace. He felt for the green stick she used to stir the coals and pushed around the ash until he found one. Then, locating the tongs, he picked it up and lit the single candle she used inside the dark cabin. With a heavy limp, he carried it to her beside.
The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection Page 11
