Heart's Heritage

by Cecil, Ramona K. ; Richardson, Lisa Karon;

  The tempest returned to Annie’s features. “Ah, on commence à y voir plus clair.” Bitterness edged the faux sweetness of her tone. “Now I understand. A pretty face and a coquettish smile turned your brain to mush and stole your senses.” Now all sweetness left her voice, which turned hard and sharp as flint. “And my land!”

  Brock groaned. He’d made a mess of this to a fare-thee-well. He strode to her and put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “It was not that way at all.”

  She turned her back, sending his heart to the bottom of his stomach. “Go help Gray Feather with the horses. I want to put on this dress. It may be the only thing I have left of my home.”

  Brock slumped to the tethered horses through the damp, ankle-deep underbrush. Frustration built in his gut until it exploded in anger, and he kicked at a fallen branch in his path. Since her abduction, he had thought of nothing but Annie. For the better part of two months, he’d tracked her with Gray Feather to the Auglaise. He’d hung his heart on every scrap of encouraging information the Delaware had managed to glean from Indians along the way, often to see his hopes dashed. His emotions had experienced the highest of heights and the lowest depths, not unlike the Ohio Valley’s hilly terrain he’d traveled in search of Annie. And now she accused him of giving away her land to impress another female! He would surely never understand women.

  Lifting off Valor’s saddle, he gave a sardonic snort.

  “My brother is angry.” Gray Feather’s quiet comment made Brock want to laugh. Angry … maybe. But of the many emotions tangling inside Brock, anger was only one strand.

  He turned to see the Delaware with his familiar bandy-legged amble approach from out of the darkness. The strong smell of tobacco from the man’s pipe filled the air. “I’m eager to get back to Deux Fleuves.” Though he had no doubt Gray Feather had heard his and Annie’s exchange, Brock had no interest in sharing his feelings about the matter.

  Gray Feather emitted a faint grunt, followed by a soft popping sound as he drew on his pipe. The red glow of the pipe’s embers lit the Indian’s angular features. Did Brock detect the hint of a smile on the Delaware’s usually stoic face? If he had, it vanished quickly, and the man’s expression turned somber. “We must leave this place soon—before the moon has set. Tonight, the braves of Chief Running Wolf’s village will sleep in their lodges by the fire. But when the sun rises, they will cross the river in search of Blanchet’s daughter.”

  Brock shook his head. “Annie needs rest.” Tonight she’d pushed herself to the limit. Though he had no experience in human births, he’d seen horses foal too soon when pushed hard, resulting in the loss of both the mother and the foal. He could only suppose it would be the same for people. The thought of Annie’s exhausted body expelling Jonah’s child far from the help of any doctor or midwife made him tremble. He’d much rather face an entire band of angry Shawnee warriors than risk losing Annie in childbirth.

  “I can travel.” Annie stepped up, now dressed in the blueprint frock Bess had provided. The flickering light of the campfire behind her burnished her curls to the color of rich sorghum. Though the dress hung a bit loosely about her middle—Bess had obviously considered Annie’s altered figure—the sight of her in the dress took Brock’s breath away.

  Puffing on his clay pipe, Gray Feather nodded his agreement and ambled toward the campfire as if to declare an end to the subject. “We will rest for a time and eat the dried meat of the buffalo, then we must travel south. When we reach the place called Cincinnati, we can travel by boat down the big river, Spelewathiipi.”

  Annie, who’d just settled herself beside the fire, cast a fearful glance between Gray Feather and Brock. “But is not Cincinnati very near Newport Barracks in Kentucky?”

  Brock nodded. “Across the river from it.” Indeed, that fact had rolled about in Brock’s mind until he’d worn it ragged. He had found Annie. Gray Feather was more than capable of seeing her home safely. He loved Annie with all his heart, but he was tired of hiding—holding his breath every time he crossed paths with a company of soldiers, fearing recognition. It was time he faced his fate like a man instead of slinking from his own shadow like a frightened cur. He likely had no future at all, let alone a future with Annie, so nothing but heartache could be gained by his going back to Deux Fleuves.

  Swallowing the knot that had gathered in his throat, he gazed at her deeply, hoping to sketch her likeness indelibly on his mind. “And that is where I will part company with you and Gray Feather.”

  A series of emotions played in rapid succession over Annie’s face, the prevalent one being anger. Standing, she strode to Brock and pulled herself to her full height of not quite five feet. Her arms stiff at her sides, she clenched her fists. “Brock Martin, you gave my land away. If you are a man of honneur, you will return to see that I get it back. Je vous dis la vérité! Return with me to Deux Fleuves, or I will leave this minute and go back to the Shawnee!”

  Chapter 13

  The smells of woodsmoke and hog manure filtering through the surrounding trees indicated they were nearing a sizable settlement. With the scents, Annie’s eagerness to reach home grew. Brock’s assurance that Obadiah Dunbar had vouched for Hermann Hoffmeier’s honesty had somewhat relieved Annie’s anxiety about her ownership of her land. Yet she wouldn’t be entirely easy until she reached home and took possession of her cabin again.

  “Are we near Madison?” She shifted her position on Valor’s back. Every muscle ached and her bottom felt numb. Already she missed the flatboat they’d spent the past fortnight on, gently floating down the Ohio River.

  Guiding Valor up a steep incline, Brock cast an encouraging smile over his shoulder. “It’s just up ahead. We’ll stop and rest at the inn Noah mentioned.”

  Annie sent up a silent prayer of thanks that they’d finally arrived safely in Indiana Territory. And that she’d successfully convinced Brock not to turn himself over to Colonel Stryker when they’d come within sight of Newport Barracks.

  She couldn’t help a triumphant grin at the memory of how he’d thrown up his hands in surrender at her threat to return to the Indian village. Actually, they’d seen no signs of her captors once they left the Auglaise behind. A blessing she attributed to both divine protection and Brock’s and Gray Feather’s skills of evasion. Brock had assured her that the closer they came to Newport Barracks, the more any danger from hostile Shawnee diminished. In truth, when the fort came into view, Annie had feared the Indians far less than the soldiers. Had a keen-eyed soldier recognized Brock, he’d likely have been clapped in irons and taken to the brig to face a court-martial.

  But God had heard Annie’s daily prayers and kept Brock safe. And when they reached the Cincinnati dock, Brock had even managed to find a family of settlers bound for Madison, Indiana, willing to take the three of them aboard their flatboat in return for the men’s help in poling the boat down the river. Annie felt sure her being in the family way had influenced the wife, Agnes Raab, to insist that her husband, Noah, take them on despite his obvious wariness about Gray Feather. The man’s concerns, however, soon vanished, and the Raabs, especially the four children, quickly made fast friends of the congenial Delaware. This morning when they docked near the town of Madison, hugs and handshakes all around expressed the group’s genuine sorrow in parting. Annie, too, was sad to say adieu not only to her hosts, but Gray Feather, who left them to visit relatives at a local Delaware village.

  They crested the hill, and a clearing appeared. Madison spread out before them. Shops of all sorts lined a wide, dusty thoroughfare bustling with patrons both on foot and horseback. Annie’s mouth felt dry as the dirt beneath Valor’s hooves. Despite her eagerness to press on toward home, the chance to rest and enjoy a cool drink of water was more than appealing.

  Brock stopped and dragged his hat off his head and ran his forearm across his brow. “Up ahead is the Red Horse Inn Noah Raab recommended as a reputable establishment.”

  At last, they stopped in front of a
two-story building. The sign that angled out from above its front door depicted a gold shield with a red horse rearing up on its back feet, its front hooves pawing the air and its nostrils flaring. A man with a lady on his arm passed beneath the sign and disappeared into the inn, confirming Noah’s assessment. No decent woman would enter a questionable place of business.

  Brock helped Annie down from Valor’s back and held her a few seconds longer than necessary. These brief moments of connection always left Annie’s head and heart reeling. But what good did it do her to love Brock when he remained determined to return to Newport Barracks the moment he saw her safely back to Deux Fleuves?

  She stepped away, uselessly busying herself swiping at her wrinkled skirt, which only a flatiron could make smooth. The fleeting moments of joy she experienced in Brock’s arms would only make the parting more painful when she had to say adieu to him forever.

  Since the kiss they shared the night he surprised her on the banks of the Auglaise, there’d been no other tender moments between them. However much she’d like to think he held special feelings for her, she knew the kiss was likely sparked simply by the emotion of having found her after a long search. And it was doubtless Brock’s sense of duty to Jonah and Jonah’s coming child that had spurred his search for her.

  Then there was the familiar tone he’d used when he’d mentioned Katarina Hoffmeier. Annie scantly remembered the German girl, who had arrived in Deux Fleuves with her family shortly before Annie’s abduction: an exceptionally pretty girl with golden hair; round, rosy cheeks; and a womanly figure that would turn any man’s head. How well acquainted with Fräulein Hoffmeier had Brock become? An image of Brock and Katarina sharing a tender moment upon his leaving Deux Fleuves to search for Annie flashed painfully in Annie’s mind. She hated the squiggle of jealousy shooting through her. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if Katarina awaited Brock’s return with hopeful anticipation. And if the German girl held a special place in Brock’s heart as well.

  As she allowed Brock to assist her up the two stone steps into the inn, Annie blinked away moisture welling in her eyes. Though it pained her to think of it, the notion of losing Brock to Katarina Hoffmeier paled in comparison to the thought of losing him to a firing squad or a hangman’s noose. Worse, she didn’t even have the comfort of knowing his soul belonged to Christ.

  Inside, a round-faced man wearing a stained linen apron and a broad smile approached them, shattering Annie’s reverie. “Welcome to the Red Horse, folks.” He bent forward in a bow, displaying a bald spot at the top of this graying head. “Zeb Scroggins, proprietor, at your service.”

  Offering the innkeeper a glancing smile, Brock stepped to one of the several tables scattered about the dim room and pulled out a bench for Annie. “We’d like some cold well water, if you please.”

  Annie caught the man staring at her middle. He glanced quickly away, his face turning bright red. She stifled a laugh as he scurried off mumbling something about getting the water. She and Brock shared an amused grin. It always tickled her how the sight of a woman in the family way embarrassed men—white men, at least. She’d found it not to be the case among the Shawnee, though. Or, interestingly enough, with Brock. Aside from taking special care not to overtire her along their journey, he’d simply treated her obvious coming motherhood as a matter of fact. True, he’d learned she was with child before her abduction, but knowing and seeing the evidence were two very different things.

  “You’re like the Indians—it doesn’t bother you.” She glanced down at her folded arms, resting on the mound that housed her precious child.

  Brock’s attention, which had drifted to the interior of the inn’s dining room, swung back to her face.

  For a moment he seemed bewildered by her comment, then, following her gaze, responded with a gentle smile. “No, it doesn’t.”

  Suddenly his smile faded and his brow furrowed. “Did they … did the Indians harm you?” A mixture of concern and remorse shone from his eyes. Until now, he hadn’t asked her about her time with the Shawnee. She sensed he felt he had failed her by allowing Crooked Ear and Standing Buck to carry her away.

  She offered him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “No, they did not harm me.” Her smile slipped into a grin that accompanied a soft giggle. “The one called Crooked Ear could be frightening at times, but even he never harmed me.”

  She went on to tell him about Standing Buck, Yellow Bird, and Winter Moon Bird, the woman who would have become her adopted grandmother. As she spoke of the people who’d taken her into their lodge as one of their family—albeit against her will—she felt an unexpected twinge of loss at her separation from them, especially her would-be adoptive sister, Yellow Bird. “I risked my life to leave them, but at times I actually miss them. It is strange, no, mon ami?”

  He reached across the table and clasped her hands, sending delicious tingles up her arms. “Of course it’s not strange. It’s only natural that you would feel some attachment to people who treated you with kindness.” His brows pinched together in a remorseful frown. “I’m glad to know you weren’t mistreated, but you should never have been taken in the first place. As your kin, it was my place to protect you—and I failed.” He winced, and her heart broke at his needless sense of guilt.

  She gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “Do not blame yourself, mon ami. You could not have stopped it. My time with the Shawnee was God’s will and part of His plan for my life.” Grinning, she placed her hand on the little mound in her lap. “I will have a great adventure to tell my child.”

  For a long moment, they shared a smile as they gazed into each other’s eyes, their hands still clasped. Annie got the sense that if the table were not between them, he might have kissed her.

  “There you be, folks.” The innkeeper stepped to their table breaking the spell, and Brock let go of Annie’s hands. Setting two pewter tankards full of water on the tabletop, the man folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Sorry it took a bit, but I had my boy fetch the water directly from the spring out back.”

  Annie and Brock expressed their thanks then took deep drinks of the cool, refreshing liquid.

  The innkeeper, who still hovered near the table, turned to Brock as he raked his curled fingers through his salt-and-pepper beard. “You and the missus be wantin’ a room for the night?”

  Warmth spread over Annie’s face, and Brock’s features reddened as well. Of course the man would think they were husband and wife. But before she could correct his assumption, Brock spoke up.

  “The lady is my kinswoman, not my wife. I’m fetching her home to the Deux Fleuves settlement near the spot known as The Forks. We’ve only stopped to refresh ourselves.”

  “Well now, that’s right curious.” The innkeeper rubbed his whiskered chin between his thumb and forefinger. “See that big German boy over there?” He jabbed his thumb at the fireplace across the room. “Claims he’s bound for the same place.”

  Looking in the direction the man indicated, Annie noticed a young man sitting alone at a table tucked in a shadowed alcove beside the chimney. Hunched forward with his head bowed, the young man’s features were hidden beneath a shock of hair the color of ripe wheat.

  “Poor feller.” Mr. Scroggins shook his head sadly. “Been here the better part of two days now. Jist sits there most of the time. I take him somethin’ to eat and drink once in a while, though he ain’t et much.”

  “What ails him?” Brock narrowed his eyes at the man across the room.

  Though the innkeeper lowered his voice, his tone sparked with enthusiasm to tell the tale. “Well, sir, he talks real Dutchy, but best I can gather his young wife somehow managed to fall into the Ohio River and drown on their way down from Cincinnati.” He gave Annie a quick look. “It seems—like you—she was in the family way.” He cleared his throat, his face growing red again. Mumbling something in an apologetic tone, he hurried away and disappeared through a narrow doorway.

  “C’est triste!” The breathless express
ion of sadness puffed from Annie’s lips. How awful to come all the way across the sea to make a new life with his family, only to be left alone.

  “I wonder if he knows the Hoffmeiers?” Promising to return directly, Brock stood and pushed back his bench, making loud scraping sounds on the puncheon floor.

  With hat in hand, he crossed the room to the young man. Annie could make out little of their conversation, but her heart swelled with love and pride as Brock gave the young man a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

  The prayer Annie had prayed countless times over the past months once more winged its way heavenward from her rent heart. Dear Lord, please find a way to spare Brock. Don’t let Colonel Stryker kill him. Even if he chose to situate his affections and his life with another, it would give her heart ease knowing this kind man she loved—would always love—remained in the world.

  Across the room, the young German rose and shook hands with Brock, and then the two men started toward Annie.

  “Annie,” Brock began when they reached her table, “this is Johann Arnholt. His family and the Hoffmeiers were friends and neighbors in the German kingdom of Hanover. He’s promised to join them in Deux Fleuves, so he’ll be traveling with us.”

  Annie started to rise, but Johann shook his head. “You sit … please. We all sit.” A half a head taller than Brock, Johann joined him on the bench across the table from Annie.

  “We are so sorry for your loss, Mr. Arnholt.” Annie wanted to express her sympathy, but briefly, so not to heighten his sadness. When Papa died, even a too-sympathetic look from someone could send her into spasms of sobs.

  Johann’s light eyes glistened with unshed tears, and his throat moved with a swallow, but his voice was steady. “Danke.”

  He looked down at his large hands in which he wadded a dark blue wool cap. “I stay here too long, I think. Me and my Sophie, we promise Herr and Frau Hoffmeier we come to The Forks.” He swallowed again—hard. “No Sophie now. No Kind … They with Gott now.”