That night I dreamed of the man in the blue shirt.
Chapter 28
New Windsor
The morning carried a drizzle over the river and left it sitting miserably overhead. The ground was relatively dry under our tarp so we were reluctant to emerge. The horses shimmied their coats against the wetness, twitching their ears as they watched us wake and roll up our gear.
Wahyaw led us to a tavern, looking for a little breakfast other than the bannock and dried meat we had brought with us. The air inside the building was ripe with ale and tobacco, the atmosphere still heavy from the night before.
There were other Indians within, all taking refuge from the foul weather. At the back wall sat the tall Indian from the trading post, watching everyone who came and went. Our eyes locked for an instant, and I was struck by the man’s resemblance to a wall. Tall, broad, and impenetrable.
I looked away from him and followed Wahyaw and the others to a table. The dirty windows admitted little light, so the sunless room created shadows from candlelight. Wahyaw took the same position as had the big Indian: back to the wall. A position of defense and ready offense.
Breakfast was stew from the night before. It was a warm mush of carrots, potatoes, onions, and a tiny bit of beef, drowned in a murky pool of broth. I had eaten better food in the village longhouse, surrounded by better company, but the meal was satisfying and filled our bellies with enough sustenance for the day. At meal’s end we left some coins on the table and left the tavern, anticipating the fresh, if damp, air.
Wahyaw was the first out, and I followed close behind. I was looking over my shoulder, listening to one of the others as I walked out the door, and as a result, didn’t see where I was going. A wool coat slammed into me, its wet fibres rough on my face.
“Oh! Excuse me!” I exclaimed.
“Pardon me!” the stranger said at the same time, stepping back.
My first thought when I saw the man’s clean-shaven face and long red jacket was that he had to have been the man I had heard the night before. The captain. My next thought was how intense his eyes were, staring at me from beneath his thick brown hair.
Wahyaw and the others stepped to the side, but were there, always there.
“Are you quite all right?” the man in uniform asked, frowning in concern. “Are you hurt? I do apologise. It was entirely my fault. My attention must have been elsewhere.”
My face flushed hot and I hated myself for suddenly feeling shy. “No, no sir,” I stammered. “I’m fine. Are you all right? I’m so sorry—I wasn’t looking and I—”
He smiled, distracting me with a flash of teeth from within the angles of his prominent cheekbones. He was extraordinarily handsome. The only flaw in his features I could see was a long, well-healed scar on his cheek. The line cut straight down from just beside his eye, stopping at one edge of his full lips.
He gave me a quick bow. “No need for apologies. No need at all. Actually, this is a fine chance meeting,” he said. “I had heard of your presence in our humble town and was hoping to make your acquaintance. So this is indeed fortunate—for me, at least.”
“You knew of my presence?” I echoed.
“Indeed. It seems you are the topic of many conversations.”
He extended one hand toward me. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do, but I gave him mine and was surprised when he touched his lips to the back of it. They were wet and cool from the drizzle. My impulse was to jerk my hand back, away from the unexpected intimacy, but I didn’t. In that brief moment I felt a jolt of something pass between us. Like a spark from my flint.
“Please allow me to introduce myself,” he said, a small smile playing over his lips. He placed one hand across his waistcoat and issued a quick bow. “Captain John Quinn, at your service.”
I stared, unsure. He raised his eyebrows and realisation hit me. “Oh! I’m sorry. I’m Maggie,” I blurted, feeling flustered. “Margaret Johnson.”
“An honour to meet you, Miss Johnson. And these fine gentlemen?”
He turned toward Wahyaw and the others and smiled. The warriors looked taken aback at the gentleman’s interest in them, but nodded one by one as I introduced them.
“Osi-yo, dee gee naylee,” the captain said, greeting them as friends in their own tongue.
Eyebrows raised in surprise, the Cherokee returned the greeting and appeared to relax their vigilance a bit. They stepped back, giving Captain Quinn unspoken permission to speak with me.
“I hope you do not find it too impertinent a question, Miss Johnson, but I cannot help but wonder how it is you come to be here, in New Windsor? There are not a great many women who come to this place, fewer still who travel with the Cherokee.”
“We came from the Keowee Valley to trade, sir,” I said, beginning to overcome my shyness. “The Cherokee are my family, and they gave me the honour of speaking for them.” I hesitated. “I’m glad I could help. The trader at the end of the road already tried to cheat them.”
Captain Quinn nodded. “George Arnold. Yes, I know him. A swindler and a liar. I was told, however, that you handled him quite efficiently,” he said. A slow smile spread from his lips into his sparkling brown eyes, and I couldn’t help smiling back.
“You heard that?” I wondered where he’d heard it from. The big Indian? Maybe Arnold himself? “Well, I couldn’t let him cheat my family,” I said.
“Plainly not,” he said without hesitation, his smile still in place. “And have you plans to stay for a while?”
“Oh, no. We leave tomorrow morning. We’re needed in the village.”
“Ma-kee,” Wahyaw grunted behind me, speaking in Cherokee. “We must go. Adahy is restless.”
“Might I be of some assistance?” Captain Quinn said, returning smoothly to Wahyaw’s language. “I would be pleased to show you all around New Windsor. I have lived most of my life in the fort. I am well acquainted with the area.”
Wahyaw’s expression darkened. “We don’t need a tour,” he snapped. “We have been here before. Ma-kee,” he said, turning to me with his mind obviously made up, “we are going now. There are people I would like you to meet.”
Captain Quinn used my slight hesitation to step in again, offering a different option. He pushed the smooth brown curls back from his forehead and tucked the ends behind his ears. His red coat brushed against the tight white breeches as he moved. I was fascinated by the smooth look of him, by his confident manner.
“I would be honoured to show Miss Johnson around and deliver her to you afterwards. You need not worry for her safety. She will be well protected. My good name is known throughout the town.”
Wahyaw looked painfully divided. He clearly didn’t want to wander the town with this man. He also knew he should remain by my side. And from my expression, he gathered I wasn’t interested in meeting more of his Cherokee kinsmen at that moment.
“I must apologise for my impertinence, Miss Johnson,” said the Captain, returning to English. “I neglected to ask if you were inclined to spend the afternoon with me.”
“I don’t even know you, sir,” I replied.
“No,” Wahyaw decided. “Ma-kee, you will stay with us.”
I thought I saw disappointment flit across the captain’s face. The expression didn’t detract from its perfection in the least.
“Perhaps we might meet for the evening meal?” he persisted, keeping his voice level.
He turned to Wahyaw and repeated the request. Wahyaw narrowed his eyes and turned to the other men. He sought resistance, but found none. The others were looking around, restless and uninterested, tired of waiting in the mist.
“Yes,” Wahyaw said finally, sounding resigned.
Captain Quinn named the tavern and the time. We agreed, then parted. I watched him walk back toward the fort with his large hands clasped behind his back. The mist dampened his hair so it seemed almost black. Tiny droplets clung to his coat and shimmered in the silver light. I was struck by his resemblance to an animal with sleek,
wet fur.
Throughout the day I was impatient to see the captain again. Wahyaw shook his head with in disgust, but I scolded him into behaving. I reminded him that Waw-Li wanted me to help communication between the Cherokee and the people of this town. This was a perfect way to start, I told him. I suggested he didn’t have to say a word at supper, if he didn’t want to. He huffed through his teeth at me, but left it at that.
The captain’s bright red coat was the only colour in the tavern when we met him there at the end of the day. He sat at one end of a table big enough for all of us. He stood and smiled when we came in, gesturing toward our seats.
The evening passed uneventfully; there was nothing of any consequence to discuss. I thought perhaps the captain wanted company, and my presence intrigued him. Wahyaw took me at my word and said nothing throughout the meal except to the other Indians. For the most part, Captain Quinn limited his attentions to me. I was unwilling to discuss how I came to be with the Cherokee, so he moved on to more basic questions: how I was enjoying New Windsor, the weather, and other trivial subjects. He listened carefully to every syllable I uttered. He laughed at any attempt I made at humour. It was flattering, but something about the way he looked at me, like he was trying to read my mind, made me nervous.
Despite this, I asked him about the fort, about the town, about anything I could think of. I was thirsty for knowledge, and he was more than willing to teach me. His voice was smooth, but I could tell that if circumstance required it, he could be heard clearly across a room. I got the impression he enjoyed hearing himself speak.
When the meal was over, the captain walked out of the tavern with us. The rain had moved on, lifting its wet blanket from the town’s shoulders, leaving everything beneath soggy but optimistic. The evening air was a welcome relief after the tavern’s smoky closeness. There were fewer stars visible than I was used to, but it wasn’t the fault of the wispy clouds. The lights of the town had borrowed some of the stars’ brightness for themselves.
“I hope we shall meet again when you return for more trading, Miss Johnson,” the captain said.
“I’ll ask for you next time, Captain Quinn. I enjoyed myself this evening.”
“As did I. There’s no need to ask for me, my dear. I am always around, keeping my eye on things.”
As if in illustration he turned his face toward a group of people on the mucky street. He gestured vaguely at them with a dismissive wave of one hand and they crossed to the other side of the street. With a weary sigh, he turned back to me.
“I suppose you could say I am somewhat of a guardian of the town, you see. I know everyone that comes in, I know their business, and I know when they will leave. If I might say so, Miss Johnson, I am a valuable friend to have in this place full of rough, uncivilised men. You will never come to harm when you are with me,” he said confidently. “Good night, sirs,” he said to the others, returning to fluent Cherokee. “I wish you a safe journey, and I hope to see you again soon.”
My companions nodded, grunting vague replies. Wahyaw offered a brief, forced smile that looked completely foreign on his face. None of the warriors tried to get along with Quinn, and he, after the basic introductions, showed no further interest in them.
I, on the other hand, spent the rest of the evening recalling every compliment the handsome captain had paid to me. It felt good to have a man look at me that way—as if I were a lady.
Chapter 29
The Darkness Within
That night I dreamed of the forest.
It was dark and I was running, dodging trees and rocks that appeared out of the blackness like ghosts. I tripped and stumbled as I fled, then was back on my feet and tearing through the underbrush again. Every muscle was tight, preparing to be grabbed by whatever breathed so hard behind me. I never looked back. I didn’t need to. I knew there wasn’t anything there for me to see.
I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, until my escape was blocked by a tall stone wall. All I could do was turn and face my invisible pursuer. When I did, I saw, as I knew I would, nothing. I looked back toward the wall, and there he was.
The coyote bore a vivid white scar from a long-ago battle. It had cut through the copper red fur on his face, beneath his flattened ears. His yellow eyes focused on me while his tongue followed the points of his teeth.
He paced toward a large tree, watching my reaction with every one of his steps. A simple gold chain, like a ladies’ piece of jewellery, hung from the tree above him, clasped onto one of the lower branches. The coyote lifted his leg and marked his territory, catching the tree, the ground, and the gold. The stench of urine filled my senses.
I stepped to the side and he mirrored my movement. He moved forward and I retreated. He grew as he moved toward me, as did the growl that vibrated through the furry throat. I blinked and the hunter’s eyes became murky pools, simmering with madness. When I blinked again, he lay on his side, chest still, eyes glazed in a final stare. A dark stain spread over the plush whiteness of his breast. It stained my own trembling hands with blood that wouldn’t wash away. He suddenly seemed very small.
I stepped back and everything disappeared. All that remained was the air. Even the solidity of the earth was gone. I fell down, down, down, my black wings beating madly in their struggle against the spiral. The wind sucked me toward a web of black fangs that stretched toward me, and I knew I was lost.
Chapter 30
Possession
Every time we rode to town, Captain Quinn was there. He always arrived so promptly it was as if he’d been watching the paths for us.
Wahyaw eventually, and reluctantly, permitted the captain and me to walk alone. Captain Quinn was very attentive, and his words were full of compliments and praise I’m sure I didn’t deserve. It was all very flattering.
About six months after I first met him, everything changed.
The Cherokee and I had just ridden for three long days, then spent a half hour haggling in George Arnold’s trading post. I looked and smelled appalling. Nevertheless, Captain Quinn was waiting for us outside the tavern, and he grinned when he saw me.
“Good afternoon, my friends,” he said, nodding to each of us as we walked toward him. “You are all well, I hope? Miss Johnson, you are looking particularly lovely if I might say so.”
I couldn’t help laughing at that. “Oh, Captain. What a thing to say! I’m horribly dirty.”
“Not at all!” he cried, beaming at me. “Not at all. It is indeed wonderful to see you looking so fine. The glory of the day pales next to you.”
That was how he always spoke to me. It was strange hearing words like that, directed at me.
“Gentlemen,” Captain Quinn said in Cherokee, “I do hope you’ll excuse us this afternoon. I have something special planned for Miss Johnson.”
Without waiting for their response, he ushered me into a tavern, which, owing to the late afternoon hour, was empty. Not even a waitress in sight. He led me to a table against the back wall, where we sat. He was still smiling, his eyes lit with excitement.
“What is it?” I asked. “What has you so happy today?”
From under his chair, Captain Quinn brought out a small package. It was wrapped in brown paper, bound with rough string that was tied in a careful bow. He balanced it on his palm, then stretched out his hand to me.
“For you, my dear,” he said.
I stared at the package sitting on his palm. I had never received a gift in my entire life. Or at least nothing that had come wrapped. I touched the paper tentatively, not exactly sure how to proceed. He must have sensed my confusion. He placed the package in my hand and closed my fingers over its rounded edges.
“It is just a small gift, Miss Johnson, a token of how much I have enjoyed our friendship. I hope you will not find it inappropriate.”
I pulled the loose end of the string until the bow unraveled and the paper escaped its bindings, revealing a small box. I lifted off the top and peeked inside, then closed it again in shock. My expressio
n must have been comical because he laughed. He leaned toward me and opened the box himself, reaching in and pulling out a gold, heart-shaped locket, which he dangled from a delicate gold chain.
“Captain Quinn, I…” I stammered, feeling blood fill my cheeks. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I was almost afraid to touch it.
“Here,” he said. “Allow me. These things can be difficult to manage.”
He rose to his feet and took my hands so that I stood as well.
“Shh,” he whispered and put his hands behind my neck to close the tiny lock.
The action brought his face close to mine, and I did nothing to push him away. His kiss was light at first, almost apologetic, but his confidence returned immediately. Heat rose in a wave from the depths of my chest, through my throat, up through lips and ears, even tickling inside my nose. He placed his hands on either side of my face to hold me there, and I was taken aback by the strength of his kiss, of the need that pulsed through him. He breathed heavily through his nose, sounding hungry. My lips and cheeks burned from his whiskers.
Curiosity and arousal shifted suddenly as fear flooded through me. I felt it bubble up in a sudden cold sweat which covered my entire body. Memories of men kneeling over me, of sheer helplessness in the face of primal violence.
“Stop,” I said. “Please stop. You’re scaring me.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. His voice, muttering what I assumed were intended endearments, sounded husky and unfamiliar. One of his hands gripped the soft flesh above my tunic, leaving red circles where his fingers pressed.
“No,” I whimpered, struggling against him. “Please don’t do this. Please stop.”
I gasped when he pulled me in too hard and our teeth knocked together. His breath filled my mouth and tasted like onions. I tried to avoid his tongue as it probed and explored. My hands pressed against his chest to push him away, but he forced me back against the cold, stone wall.
Under the Same Sky Page 20
