The deep-throated song of the frogs beckoned, guiding her steps.
Skirting the village, she made her way through the pitch-black woods, cringing at each snap of a twig and rustle of leaves beneath her feet. She glanced up at the forest canopy, wishing it were spring or even winter instead of late July. No glimmer of starlight penetrated the thick leafy foliage to light her way. On the other hand, the darkness was her ally, hiding her from anyone who might be about.
She could hear the river now, humming its soothing tune as it wended its way through the wilderness. Quickening her steps, she ignored the brambles stinging her legs and prayed she would not tread upon a viper slumbering beneath the many layers of dried leaves. Here, the land sloped, and the fishy smell of the river reached her nose.
Annie’s heart sped, and jubilation bubbled up in her chest. She tamped it down. If she failed to keep her wits about her, her freedom could be short lived. It would take only one villager out to answer nature’s call to spy her, and all her efforts tonight would be for naught.
Sobered at the thought, she grasped at spindly sapling willows to steady her descent down the increasingly steep incline. Gradually, the leafy carpet beneath her feet gave way to sandy soil. A half-dozen more steps and she emerged from the forest. Now in the clear, she looked up. Countless stars sparkled in the dark heavens. A silver sliver of moon offered a modicum of light to guide her steps. The braves kept their canoes hidden in a sapling willow copse near the river. But sapling willows grew all along the riverbank. She should be near the spot, but in the darkness it would be nearly impossible to determine which grove of trees hid the canoes.
Forcing down the panic rising in her chest, she slipped among the stand of young trees closest at hand. Her eyes were now somewhat adjusted to the darkness, but however hard she stared, she could make out nothing that resembled the long, narrow shapes of upside-down canoes.
Despair wrapped around her like a soggy blanket. Shaking it off, she emerged from the trees. She couldn’t waste any more precious time looking for the vessels, but must strike out on foot and put as much distance as possible between her and the village before morning.
No sooner had she emerged from the willows, when a muscular arm grabbed her around the waist and a hard hand clapped over her mouth.
Chapter 11
Annie opened her mouth to scream, but the sound was smothered by her captor’s rough palm. Struggling for breath, she strained to suck air into her nostrils. Was this where she would die? And by whose hand? Not without a fight!
Tears filled her eyes. Sobs of fury rose in her throat. The restraint over her mouth turned them to whimpers. Her attacker’s other arm pinned hers to her body, preventing her from flailing, but her legs remained free. She kicked at her assailant with all her might. If she must go to God this night, she’d leave a mark on the man who sent her there.
“Annie. Annie, be still. It’s Brock.”
Annie’s heart stopped in midbeat. Her body froze. The night began to swirl around her, and a humming commenced in her ears as if a swarm of locusts had invaded her head. “B–Brock?” She could barely breath, but not because of his hand over her mouth. For his hand had gently slid away to cup her jaw, while his calloused thumb caressed her lips.
Afraid to believe her ears, she twisted in his arms and gazed into his face. The darkness cloaked much of his features, but the scant moonlight reflecting off the stream beside them revealed gray-green eyes beneath low-riding brows.
Annie’s legs buckled. He caught her in his arms. A sob tore from her throat. He pulled her close to his chest, muffling it. “Brock. Brock.” His name snagged on a ragged sob as she slipped trembling arms around his neck.
A million questions flitted about in her mind like the host of lightning bugs piercing the night with their yellow-green flashes of light. None of them mattered now. All that mattered was Brock’s arms holding her tight against him, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered her name over and over.
“Annie.” His voice turned husky, breaking on her name. His lips blazed a fiery trail from her ear to her mouth, then lingered there.
The night, the dangers around them … the world all spun away leaving Annie and Brock alone, floating in a sweet cocoon all their own.
Without warning he pushed away, breaking the beautiful spell and slamming Annie back to earth with a jolt. His whispered voice turned stern. “Come. We have to leave here.” He clasped her hand and towed her southward at a fast pace. Before she could ask where they were going, he said, “There are canoes a few yards from here. We can take one to where Gray Feather is waiting with mounts on the other side of the river.”
The sound of excited voices advancing straight toward them stopped Annie and Brock in their tracks. Had Winter Moon Bird awakened and, finding Annie missing, raised the alarm?
“Can you swim?” Though tight, Brock’s voice was calm as he tugged her toward the river.
“Oui.” Annie couldn’t help the hint of indignation that tinged her reply. She couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t know how to swim. According to Mama, Papa had taught Annie to swim before she could walk. And more times than she cared to remember, the skill had saved her life when Papa’s canoe capsized in rough waters. Wading into the rushing stream, she stifled a soft gasp at the first touch of the cool water on her feet and ankles. But her skin quickly became accustomed to the water’s temperature. Brock’s secure grasp on her upper arm guided her through the darkness as she pushed her knees against the river’s current, advancing ever deeper into the moving water.
By the time they reached midstream, the wind had whipped up, chilling Annie. She abandoned walking and began to swim through the now neck-deep water. Though they no longer touched, knowing Brock was there swimming beside her gave her courage.
Thunder rumbled overhead and reverberated through the river valley like distant cannon shot. The noise heartened her. The din of a storm could help cover the sounds of their escape. She prayed they could reach the forest on the other side of the river before the throng discovered they had taken to the water. But the instant the prayer formed in her mind, the urgent voices filtering through the thunder seemed to turn in their direction.
Angry shouts from the shore behind them sent a chill through Annie that had nothing to do with the gusting wind or the rushing river. One voice rose above the others, sending terror slashing through her like the barbs of lightning flashing around them.
“Nee-pa-wi-loo, Ann-ee!” Crooked Ear, calling in Shawnee for her to stop.
His order, punctuated by the sharp report of a rifle, had the opposite effect, spurring her on. She swam faster, pushing her burning limbs to the limit. Please God, get me and Brock to the other side alive!
A whiz and zip near Brock’s ear told him the Shawnee had drawn a bead on him and Annie. The muscles of his arms and shoulders burned with exertion as he cut through the water with quick strokes, fighting the current as well as his sodden clothes. Had he come this far, following Annie’s trail for nearly two months to now lose her and his own life in the bargain the very moment he found her?
Rage sent a burst of energy through him. No! He mentally shook his fist at whatever malevolent god found sport in snatching away the happiness he’d experienced moments ago in Annie’s arms. The sound of her labored breathing as she swam beside him lent him a measure of comfort. But could she keep up the pace? If they could reach the other side of the river unscathed, they’d be beyond accurate range.
The shadowy outline of the wooded shore before them drew tantalizingly nearer. At the same time, the whoops of the Shawnee braves behind them grew louder, closer. They must have given chase in the canoes Brock had planned to use for their escape.
Annie clearly heard them, too, for her breaths, which came even quicker now, turned raspy with her increased exertion. How she managed to keep up with Brock’s longer strokes, he couldn’t imagine.
“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the fa
ith.”
Oddly, the words from the Bible his mother had recited before she breathed her last, flashed into his mind. God may have no use for Brock, but surely Annie and her unborn child deserved to live. Save Annie. Please save Annie.
The thought had no sooner formed in his mind than his hand smacked against something solid poking up from the river. He grasped what felt like a branch—attached to a partially submerged tree by the feel of it.
At the speed of the bullets zipping over their heads, a plan flashed in his mind. The moment they stepped out of the water, they’d present easy targets to their pursuers. But cloaked by the darkness, they could possibly hide unseen among these branches. Annie was spent. That was obvious by her raspy, labored breaths. Not only would this tree provide her a chance to rest, but might even trick the Shawnee into giving up the chase, thinking Annie and Brock had drowned.
Reaching out his free hand, he grabbed Annie’s arm. She emitted a sharp intake of breath, but made no other sound when he towed her to the log. She gripped a branch and gave a mute nod of understanding. Together they worked their way around the log, putting it between them and their assailants, while hiding amid a dense web of branches. In the dark and with only their heads above water, they should be practically invisible.
Brock slipped his arm around Annie’s trembling body and held her close. She nestled warmly against him, and his heart galloped. How he longed to make her his. But that could never be. The thought strummed a poignant chord across his heartstrings. Even if they survived the Shawnee, Brock still faced certain death at the hand of Colonel Stryker.
A half-dozen Indians paddled three canoes toward Brock and Annie’s hiding place. One brave in the lead canoe held a pine-pitch torch aloft. The flame danced eerily over the water. Without exchanging a word or signal, Brock and Annie slowly sank together beneath the river’s inky surface. Seconds crawled by like minutes in the watery darkness until Brock’s lungs began to burn. Could Annie hold her breath long enough for the Shawnee to give up and turn away? He could only hope.
Suddenly, the water above their heads began to churn and dance. Were their hunters throwing objects into the water? When he could no longer see the torchlight from beneath the river’s surface, Brock tentatively poked his head up and was immediately pelted by water from above. It was raining—hard. In the distance, he could make out the shadowy shapes of the canoes drifting away, back to the Shawnee’s side of the river. He could no longer see evidence of light piercing the darkness. Apparently, the rain had quenched the Indians’ torch. As Brock had hoped, the searchers must have decided their quarry had drowned, leaving them with little enthusiasm for hunting dead bodies in the rain when they could sit by the fire in their dry wigwams.
Brock tugged at the collar of Annie’s deerskin shift, and she eased her head up out of the water. Instead of noisily gasping a mouthful of air as Brock had feared she might, she pressed her face against his shoulder, muting her intake of breath and garnering both his admiration and gratitude. His heart throbbed painfully in his chest. Over the years he’d met his share of lovely ladies, but never one whose beauty was only surpassed by her intelligence and courage. Until Annie.
Though their adversaries appeared to have abandoned their search, Brock and Annie clung to their watery sanctuary for several more minutes, shivering while a deluge of rain beat down upon them. Finally, feeling confident enough to leave their haven, Brock motioned toward the wooded shore in front of them. Annie nodded in agreement, and they silently swam the last few yards to safety.
Fearing her jellylike legs would not support her, Annie emerged from the river on all fours and crawled up the muddy bank like a crawdad. Though now on firm, if sodden, ground, she still could hardly believe all that had occurred over the past hour or so. But the strong arm around her waist, lifting her up, gave proof that Brock was indeed here, and the place of her captivity now lay behind her across the Auglaise River.
For several minutes, they made their way through the soppy underbrush and dead leaves of the forest floor. Somewhere in the river Annie had lost her moccasins. She stepped with care to avoid slipping on the wet leaves in her bare feet. Even if she did slip, with Brock’s arm securely around her, she didn’t fear falling.
At length, the soft nickering of a horse brought them both up short. Like a ghostly apparition, a dark figure appeared from behind an ancient oak tree. For an instant, Annie’s heart leaped to her throat, for the figure wore the long shirt and leggings of the Shawnee. But as he stepped closer, her heart began to beat again. Gray Feather! She couldn’t remember when she was so happy to see Papa and Jonah’s old friend.
Giving her a scant hint of a smile he gripped her shoulders and nodded, making the drenched turkey feather dangling from his scalp lock bounce on his shoulder. Without a word, he turned and beckoned them to follow. A few steps farther, he produced a pair of horses: Brock’s sorrel, Valor, and a dapple gray. Brock hoisted her up to Valor’s saddle, and they continued in silence for about another hour, the men leading the horses on foot while Annie rode.
At length, Gray Feather stopped at a rocky outcrop in the side of a hill. The rain had stopped some minutes ago, but Annie still shivered in her wet clothes. Brock couldn’t be any less miserable in his sodden shirt and breeches. Though he, too, had lost his footwear in the river, he now wore a pair of moccasins provided by Gray Feather, which came as no surprise to Annie. That Indians often carried at least one spare pair of moccasins was something she’d learned early at Papa’s side, trading with the local Delaware.
Brock helped Annie down from Valor’s back, and Gray Feather cocked his head toward the rocky ledge. “We camp here.” Gray Feather’s quiet words were the first anyone had spoken since Annie and Brock entered the river.
A few minutes later, Gray Feather had a fire going in the midst of the alcove. How he managed to find enough tinder and dry wood to accomplish the task amazed Annie.
When the three sat down around the fire, Brock glanced at her warming her toes near the cheery flame. “You should not stay in those wet clothes.”
Annie started to remind him that his clothes, too, were far from dry. Then it occurred to her that it was likely not her wet condition, but her delicate one that had prompted his comment. Heat not generated by the campfire flooded her face. She focused on the orange sparks shooting up from the flame. “The fire will dry me soon.”
He stood and walked to where the horses were tethered. There he opened the leather pouch slung over his horse’s neck, pulled out a brown paper bundle, and carried it to her. “Here, Gray Feather and I will see to the horses while you put this on.” His voice sounded tight. He cleared it twice as he handed her the parcel, his gaze skittering away from hers. “Before Gray Feather and I left Deux Fleuves, Bess Dunbar insisted I take this fresh frock and moccasins.” He grinned. “She seemed convinced we would find you.”
Affection for her motherly friend welled up in Annie’s eyes. “Bess would have set to praying the minute you left. And Bess knows the power of prayer.” She held the package close to her chest and smiled. “And her prayers worked. God led you to me. Did He not, mon ami?
“If you want to think so.” Brock’s sardonic chuckle filled her with sadness. Why could he not see God’s hand at work before his very eyes?
“Gray Feather and I will see to the horses while you change.” He turned to leave.
“Brock, what of my—our land?” She blurted the question that had rolled around in her mind since she realized he’d found her. “With no one there to tend it, do you not risk squatters claiming it?”
For a long moment he stood still, his face averted. Slowly, he turned back to her. “I did not leave the land unattended. The Hoffmeiers are living there now.”
Chapter 12
Annie’s face blanched and Brock’s heart quaked. How would she feel about the decision he’d made?
Her eyes—those beautiful cinnamon-brown eyes—glistened with tears in the firelight. She might as well have taken
a filleting knife to his chest. A brave smile quavered on her rosebud lips, and she lifted her chin. “Then you have money now to hire the best counsel to plead your case. That is good.”
That she’d willingly sacrifice the land she held so dear to save him touched the very depths of Brock’s soul. It took every ounce of his will not to sweep her into his arms and kiss her. Instead, he took her hands in his. He couldn’t stop the widening grin stretching his lips as he contemplated relieving her mind.
“Annie, dear Annie. No money changed hands. The Hoffmeiers did not buy the land. They are only tending it in exchange for a portion of the crops.”
Annie’s jaw went slack. Snatching her hands from his, she stepped back. “Espèce d’imbécile!” Her face turned as stormy as the weather a couple of hours earlier. “By living in the cabin and harvesting the crops, the Hoffmeiers can legally claim the land as their own. You have given away my land for nothing!” Tears sketched down her face.
Brock stood stunned in the face of her angry volley. He’d thought she’d be pleased to know her place was being tended. Somehow, he must make her understand that her land was safe and awaiting her return. “Annie.” He stepped toward her, but she took another step back and held up the bundle of clothes like a shield between them. Standing pat, Brock puffed out a breath. “The land is still yours, Annie. Katarina assured me she understood the bargain.”
A perplexed frown replaced the angry one on Annie’s face. “Katarina?”
“Yes. Katarina Hoffmeier. Hermann Hoffmeier’s daughter. Her English is better than her parents’, so I dealt with her.”
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