Heart's Heritage

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

  Johann’s voice cracked, and so did Annie’s heart. She wished there were some way she could ease his pain. She’d been in his place and knew there was nothing she could do except to pray and ask God to grant him peace and comfort.

  Johann sat up straighter and lifted his chin. His voice took on a stronger, resolute tone. “But we make promise. So I keep promise for me and Sophie.”

  The innkeeper reappeared through the little doorway. Smiling brightly, he rubbed his palms together. “Would you folks like something to eat? My wife has pork pies fresh from the oven.”

  Brock and Annie exchanged awkward glances. Many hours had passed since breakfast and the tempting aromas wafting from the inn’s interior caused Annie’s stomach to grind with hunger. She suspected Brock’s did, too. But she doubted he had any money, and nothing worth trading but Valor or his sheath knife—both of which he needed. She was about to say no when Johann piped up.

  “Ja, we all have pies.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out several silver coins. They clinked merrily as he plunked them down on the table.

  The innkeeper scooped up the coins, testing one between his teeth, then with a nod, hurried away to fill the order.

  Several minutes later they were all dining on hot meat pies and tankards of cold milk. Annie was glad to learn that Johann had a wagon ready to transport them all to Deux Fleuves, because she wasn’t at all certain she could mount Valor after such a filling meal.

  As they were finishing the last bites a man burst through the door. His wide eyes held the wild look of terror, and his face was as white as the inside of the mussel shells Annie used to gather from the riverbanks as a child. “Zeb! Zebulon Scroggins!”

  At the man’s loud summons, the innkeeper came thundering into the dining room. “Sam Tinchell, have you lost yer mind? What’s possessed you to come stormin’ in my inn and upsettin’ my patrons?” He shot Annie an apologetic look. “Why this little lady’s in a delicate—”

  “They need to be upset. You all do.” Still trembling, the man gestured wildly, waving his arm toward the north side of the inn. “Shawnee done massacred the whole of Pigeon Roost. Every last man, woman, and child from what I hear!”

  Annie gasped. Pigeon Roost settlement sat less than forty miles east of Deux Fleuves, and they’d need to pass just north of it.

  Dread gripped her. Did her cabin still stand? Did Bess, Obadiah, and their children remain safe? She reached across the table and grasped Brock’s hands. “I need to get home.”

  His russet brows knitted together in a worried V, and for a moment she feared he would put up an argument. But as she gazed intently into his face, she saw surrender in his eyes, and he nodded.

  Johann stood. “I get wagon. We go now to The Forks.”

  Chapter 14

  It’s just as you left it.” Relief tinged Brock’s voice as Johann brought the wagon to a stop in front of Annie’s cabin.

  Sitting beside Johann, Annie gazed upon her cabin for the first time in nearly three months. The scene before her eyes misted, and her heart swelled with grateful prayers. Since learning of the tragedy at Pigeon Roost, they were not at all sure what they might find when they arrived here.

  But gazing over the landscape, she knew Brock was not entirely correct in his assessment. Things here had changed since she last saw her land. The day of her abduction, the corn the two of them planted had reached only waist high. Now the stalks stood taller than most men. Crowned with golden tassels, the plants’ green leaves had begun yellowing beneath the early-September sun, while brown silks that tipped well-formed ears curled as they dried. Near the ground, splotches of orange appeared on round, green pumpkins: the gourds she’d planted the day she was taken. The four acres of wheat and oats, which three months ago had just started sporting grain heads, were now reduced to golden stubble.

  “Hermann Hoffmeier and his family have taken good care of the place.” Standing behind her in the wagon’s bed, Brock voiced Annie’s own thoughts.

  “Oui.” Her gaze pivoted to the cabin. All looked neat and tidy. Even the two brownstone steps that led up to the building’s front door appeared swept clean. Beside the steps, someone had planted a wild rosebush and some honeysuckle vines. Although Brock had told her the Dunbars were caring for Cap’n Brody, she almost expected the big dog to come bounding out the front door. But the door was closed—barred shut.

  For the first time since they arrived, she noticed the unnatural quiet. Not so much as a bray from Sal or a moo from Persimmon.

  An uneasy feeling rose in Annie’s chest as her gaze climbed to the top of the chimney, devoid of smoke.

  Something was not right.

  She sensed Brock tense behind her. He must feel it, too.

  Dread tiptoed up Annie’s spine, raising the hair at the back of her neck. At the worried look on Brock’s face she struggled to keep her voice calm. “The Hoffmeiers must have moved to their new cabin.”

  Brock shook his head. “They promised some of the family would stay here until I returned.”

  Climbing down from the wagon, he took up his rifle and motioned for Johann to ready his own musket. “I’m going to look around. If there’s any trouble, you two hightail it to the fort.”

  Beating back the fear rising inside her, she gave Brock a solemn nod and prayed he’d find nothing amiss. Beside her, Johann calmly loaded his musket as Brock disappeared behind the cabin. Annie wished she had Jonah’s old brown Bess as well.

  After a few tense moments, Brock emerged from around the building’s northeast corner. Annie hadn’t realized she’d held her breath until she expelled it with a relieved whoosh.

  Giving a puzzled shrug, he walked back to the wagon. “They must have gone to the fort.”

  Annie stood. For nearly three months, she’d longed to see the inside of her cabin again. She wouldn’t leave until she had. “I want to see my cabin, and I need to get my mother’s Bible.”

  Brock shook his head. “I’m sorry, Annie, but I’m not sure it’s safe to linger.”

  A flash of anger stiffened Annie’s back, and she began to climb down from the wagon. “Allez-y! You do as you like, Brock Martin, but I’m going into my house!”

  Before her foot touched the wagon spoke, she felt his sure grip on her waist and heard his soft sigh of defeat. “One quick look, Annie, and then we must go.”

  “I watch.” Johann looked down upon them from his perch on the wagon, a hint of a grin lifting the corner of his mouth.

  At the door, Annie fidgeted with excitement on the stone step as Brock removed the heavy wood bar. How wonderful it would be to see her own things again—to sit on her own bed.

  When he finally opened the door, she stepped into a room at once familiar and unfamiliar. Objects she didn’t recognize blended with her own to make a space, though homey, different from the one she remembered. It even smelled different. The scents of cooked cabbage and sausage still lingered in the air. Yet she was pleased to see how tidy the place looked.

  When her gaze drifted to the table by the bed where she’d kept her mother’s Bible, disappointment and sadness struck her a solid blow.

  Her voice quavered and tears stung her eyes. “Mama’s Bible is gone.” She tried to console herself with rational thought. Brock had said the Hoffmeiers were good Christian people. Perhaps they’d simply packed it away for her.

  Frowning, Brock bounced a narrow-eyed glance around the space. “They left in a hurry, that’s for sure. I say we do the same.”

  Though she hated leaving, Annie knew he was right. Nodding, she exited the cabin, eager to see Bess and Obadiah.

  On their way to the fort, every other homestead they passed looked as abandoned as hers. But Annie took solace in that they found none of the places burned or any other grim signs of attack.

  As they approached the fort, someone called out heralding their arrival, and the twin log gates swung open, allowing them to enter.

  Annie gazed about astounded. Only on Sunday had she seen so many
people in the fort at once. And this wasn’t Sunday. A buzz of excitement swelled and spread through the gathering crowd around them. Brock and Johann climbed down from the wagon first. Scanning the crowd of people for Bess and Obadiah, Annie climbed down from the wagon into waiting arms. She turned, expecting to see Brock’s face. But it was Johann’s smile that greeted her—Johann’s arms that lifted her safely to the ground.

  The disappointment squiggling through Annie evaporated at the sight of Bess Dunbar running toward her, arms outstretched and tears streaming down her beaming face.

  “Oh, my girl! My precious, precious girl!” Bess’s tears dampened Annie’s hair and shoulder. “Praise be to God! Praise His Holy Name….” The rest of her words were swallowed by happy sobs as she rocked Annie in her arms like she was little Ruth or Isaac.

  Annie vaguely noticed Johann and Brock move away to another group of people as she clung to Bess, joining her friend in a chorus of tears and laughter.

  At last, Bess pushed away from their embrace. “Brock vowed he’d fetch you back to us, and he did. Praise be to God, he did! Let me look at you.” Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a little O. “I knew I was right.” New tears sketched silently down her plump cheeks, and she pressed her palm against Annie’s rounded belly. “He kicks real strong.”

  Annie couldn’t help giggling at Bess’s words. “You think it is a boy, then?”

  Bess gave her an astonished look. “Why, ’course it’s a boy! Look how you’re carryin’—all out front in a little ball.” She shook her head and brushed away fresh tears. “Jonah would be right pleased.”

  Annie liked to imagine Jonah grinning down on her from heaven, already aware of their child’s gender. At the same time, it bothered her to think of the babe growing up without a father. Her gaze instinctively turned toward Brock like a willow branch to water. He stood some distance away with Johann, Obadiah, and a group of people she didn’t immediately recognize. Then she watched Brock hug a very pretty, but obviously distraught, blond girl, and Annie’s heart pinched.

  Katarina Hoffmeier.

  Did the girl cry from sorrow at the news of Sophie Arnholt, or in happiness at Brock’s safe return? Perhaps both, Annie decided, watching Brock touch the girl’s arm in a sympathetic manner that suggested a measure of familiarity. Annie hated the jealousy rising up inside her.

  Before she had a chance to wonder any more about the two’s relationship, she found herself engulfed in Obadiah Dunbar’s paternal bear hug.

  “Our prayers have been answered, lass. We will be singing praises of thanksgiving to God tonight, my girl.” Letting her go, Obadiah’s happy face turned somber. “When we heard about Pigeon Roost, we feared for you and Brock and Gray Feather.”

  Annie glanced around at the milling throng. “Is that why everyone has come into the fort—because of what happened at Pigeon Roost?”

  Obadiah nodded. “That, and because of George Kinney. They found him tomahawked to death in his cornfield yesterday.”

  Chapter 15

  There you are, mon chere, with your head as hard as a rock.”

  At the sound of Annie’s bright voice and happy giggle, Brock looked up from cleaning his rifle. During their nearly two weeks in the fort, he’d come to pay scant attention to the hundred or so voices constantly buzzing around the little compound. Mixed with animal sounds, they all blended together in an unintelligible drone that reminded him of a bee tree. Yet his ears seemed tuned to Annie’s voice alone, which never failed to send a thrill rippling through him.

  “Are you talking to me or Cap’n Brody here?” His heart thumped harder as she neared the east end of the garrison house porch where he sat cross-legged beside the big dog.

  “Why, the cap’n, of course.” She bent to hug the dog’s thick, woolly neck. “But if the cap fits …” She sent Brock a teasing grin, displaying that delightful little dimple in her cheek he loved so much.

  “I’m convinced he lived for no other purpose than to see you again.” Brock hoped his voice sounded nonchalant, but doubted it. How could he remain unaffected by her nearness when these private conversations with her had become as rare and dear as gold?

  In slow, careful movements, she lowered herself to the brownstone step next to the spot on the porch where Cap’n Brody lay basking in the midmorning sun. Caught in a slice of sunlight, Annie looked achingly beautiful as she settled on the rock, readjusting her brown calico skirt to better accommodate her expanding girth.

  Brock allowed his gaze to roam untethered over her features, drinking in her loveliness like a thirsty man guzzles water. Her faded calico bonnet hung limply at the back of her neck, and a freshening breeze tantalizingly rearranged the walnut-colored curls at her forehead.

  He swallowed down the painful knot that had gathered in his throat. Had there ever been a man so completely smitten as he … a heart so helplessly beguiled as his?

  “There is nothing you would not do for me, is that not so, mon ami?” The golden freckles sprinkled over Annie’s face seemed to dance merrily as she wrinkled her nose at the dog, who answered with a contented groan and a soulful look.

  Brock longed to say that the sentiment exactly described his own devotion to her. But she must surely know that. Hadn’t he tracked her from Deux Fleuves to the interior of Ohio, risking both his life and freedom to bring her home? He would gladly do it again without a moment’s hesitation. How he longed to proclaim his love and devotion to her. But between his appointment with Stryker’s hangman’s noose and the hostile Shawnee who kept them penned up in this fort, his time on earth was quickly dwindling.

  Annie offered Brock an unsteady smile. “Surely by now, Gray Feather has sent word to the rangers at Fort French Lick. Until they arrive, we must all stay as strong as our stout-hearted Cap’n Brody.” A tinge of uncertainty tarnished the bright hope in her voice.

  Brock rammed the cleaning rod down the barrel of his rifle and prayed Annie was right. He longed to reassure her, but giving her false hope would only be cruel. “Gray Feather will do all he can to help—you know that.”

  Though his statement was true, Brock feared that even if Gray Feather managed to get word of their predicament to Fort French Lick, the rangers might not believe him. Too many times Indians had used just such tricks to lure soldiers into death traps.

  But something needed to be done … and soon. The limited food supplies in the fort would not hold out long. For the first two or three days, there’d been an almost celebratory attitude among the settlers, as if they had gathered in the fort for a wedding or a log rolling. As they had experienced on earlier occasions, they expected a company of soldiers to arrive within a day or two and shoo away the pesky Indians bedeviling them. But ten days had passed with no sign of help, and the menace lurking outside the little stockade had become frighteningly apparent.

  Lately, Brock had sensed a further deterioration in the general mood within the compound. As the days passed, their frustration at being cooped up in the fort had gradually given way to a growing panic. Each time someone tried to leave the stockade, they were greeted by a musket shot or an arrow that seemed to come from nowhere. Until yesterday, they’d all been warning shots. Then, impatience and worry over the condition of his livestock at home had caused Pritch Callahan to foolishly walk out of the fort in the middle of the day. The man hadn’t gotten twenty paces before an arrow whistled through the air and struck his shoulder. Brock and Amos Buxton just barely managed to get him back into the safety of the compound with their own skins intact.

  Annie’s brows pinched together as she rubbed the dog’s head and glanced down the length of the porch toward the building’s open front door.

  Brock longed to still her fears. He infused his voice with as much optimism as he could muster. “Pritch didn’t make it yesterday, but it was a fool thing he did, leaving in broad daylight. He’s lucky he’s still breathing and wearing his scalp. But I think if some of us tried it at night—”

  “Pritch Callahan should have
waited for the soldiers.” Annie fixed Brock with a stern glare. “We all should wait for the soldiers. In another day or two—”

  “Annie!” Her name exploded from Brock’s mouth. His back stiffened, and he sat up straight, his musket forgotten. As much as he wanted to give her hope, he couldn’t bear to hear another person say that all they needed to do was to wait another day. “We’ve been saying ‘a day or two’ for over a week now. Most of the army is occupied up north fighting the British as well as Tecumseh and The Prophet. The army doesn’t have the resources these days to send soldiers to check on every settler fort in the Territory.”

  When Annie turned silent and went back to petting the dog, Brock blew out a calming breath and relaxed against the garrison house wall again. The last thing he’d wanted to do was fight with Annie. He resumed his work with the musket and tempered his voice. “How is Pritch?”

  Annie shrugged. She seemed as disinclined to argue as he did. “Bess says if the wound doesn’t putrefy, he should live.” Her gaze swung toward the east perimeter of the stockade, where several farm animals grazed. “I’m just thankful the Hoffmeiers thought to bring Sal and Persimmon when they came to the fort. At least I know I’ll still have my animals when I’m able to go home again. And Johann is fairly certain that Persimmon is with calf.”

  Brock smiled as he ran a scrap of oily cloth over the gun’s mechanisms, heartened by the lilt in her voice. “Then she will be freshening in a few months, and you won’t have to worry about her going dry.” He decided it would be best not to mention that if the days dragged on and they remained trapped in the fort, the animals would soon be competing with the people for food.

  “Johann said if Hermann doesn’t buy the calf, he will.” She turned a fond smile toward Johann, who was leading Persimmon and Sal to one of the few remaining patches of high grass inside the fort.

  The familiarity in her voice when she spoke of their new friend set emotions warring within Brock. He’d noticed that Annie seemed to divide her time between the Dunbars, the Hoffmeiers, and Johann. He knew he should be glad if Annie’s friendship with the young German turned to love. Brock liked the kind, even-tempered fellow very much. He could leave this world with his heart at peace knowing Johann would take good care of Annie and her baby. Yet the thought of her with another man—even a good man like Johann Arnholt—gouged at his heart.