Runaway

by Heather Graham

  And with Lisa gone, once Robert’s suggestion had been made, he had, perhaps, thought of a wife in the same light. Something to have, to use, to set aside, to care for and tend, and yet …

  Walk away from. Forget.

  He leaned hard upon the cabin door frame for a second, mocking himself. Wives were living women, not ships. Nor beasts of burden. Yet that was what he had wanted, what he had expected. To have her, aye, use her well, carefully tend her—walk away. And he hadn’t even known quite what he had wanted until he had realized it was not what he had gotten. He was entangled in that golden hair. Now that he had awakened after such an evening, he was still convinced that she was, indeed, priceless.

  And that he was going to pay the price. He had certainly never expected the emotions she had wrung from him, and he felt oddly defensive and displeased. He was no longer willing to play her game. He wanted more from her. More than what she had given. He wanted what she held away from him, all the truth of who and what she was. He had promised not to demand it.

  His shoulders squared and his back stiffened as he strode to the foot of the bunk and studied her anew. He yearned to wake her, to hold her again. To inspect her from head to toe, touch her … have her, feel that he could somehow demand in such a way what she remained unwilling to give. But he wouldn’t wake her, not now. And he swore beneath his breath, for he had promised not to make demands.

  But neither would he give her any of himself, he determined. Any of his past.

  Thus decided, he turned his eyes from the tangle of hair that covered her throat and breasts, and swore again as he dressed. He went to the helm and found Robert at the wheel, and discovered, to his surprise, that he might well be needed, for the sun clearly showed him that he had slept through the morning and into the afternoon. Even as he approached the wheel, Leo strode up behind him with a steaming cup of hot coffee.

  “We didn’t know which way y’had in mind of traveling, Captain!” Leo told him, offering the cup.

  “Winds have been low, we’re just off the coast of Pensacola now,” Robert told him. “Did you want to stop?”

  Jarrett hesitated a moment and then shook his head. They’d come into New Orleans for Christmas Day, and it was already January second. He realized that he’d taken a wife on the first day of the year. He didn’t know if that meant anything or not, but it was certainly one different way to start the year, meeting and marrying a woman all in one on January first.

  He might have wanted to stop at Pensacola just to see what news was brewing within the territory, but he was anxious to get home. The situation was often tense down by the plantations just north and south of the Hillsborough River. He didn’t like to be gone long. Things could change so quickly.

  He hadn’t been happy about the state of politics when he had left home. He was worried that men hadn’t been paying attention to what was going on.

  The territory was beginning to boom, and much of the present trouble dated back many years.

  When the fledgling young American country had begun having trouble with the British again and the War of 1812 had broken out, both sides had used the Indians to fight with them as allies. During that war, with those divisions creating some of the havoc, the Creek War of ’13–’14 had broken out, and many of the Indian survivors had then moved south to become “Seminoles”—the Upper Creeks, because their lands had been decimated, and the Lower Creeks, because even though they had fought on the side of the Americans, they had returned from their fighting to discover that their lands, too, had been taken over. Trouble had of course arisen again in Florida, still Spanish territory at the time. That hadn’t bothered the Americans. They’d come in with their accusations that the Spanish had no control over marauding Indians and British spies. Andrew Jackson had already fought the Creeks, and had given the people a spectacular victory at the Battle of New Orleans—even if the war had been officially over at the time, none of the combatants had known it. Jackson had then come south to settle the problems in Florida provoking a Seminole war. Indians who had fought against one another just years before now became allies. Just as those who had earlier fought side by side now became enemies. But in the end, in the north of the territory, the Seminoles were subdued. Many moved deeper into their hammocks. Some pressed southward into the peninsula. Then events had happened quickly. Spain had finally ceded Florida to America for concessions in return. Jackson had become the first military governor of the new territory, though he had not stayed a full year. And the Indian question had finally led to the Treaty of Moultrie Creek, where the Indians had been granted the right to certain lands, with a twenty-year promise to go with those rights. Nine years were still guaranteed by that treaty. But the Indians and whites had come too close. Despite the fact that the land was wild, much of it marsh, some of it swamp, great vast tracts of it wilderness, some of it was good. Excellent land for raising cattle, for growing sugarcane, for that good southern staple, cotton. Everyone wanted the good land. Men came to make their fortunes; Florida was American now. With a great deal of backbone and a little bit of money, a man could homestead. Poor men could create small heavens. Richer men could create vast estates. That was being done. In the meantime the whites wanted more of the Indian lands. The Indians began to hate their boundaries. The Indians accused the whites of encroaching upon Indian lands, the whites accused the Indians of stealing cattle and raiding their plantations for farm animals and supplies.

  Sometimes relations between whites and Seminoles were good. Seminoles traded their furs and pelts for white goods. Earlier on they had traded for liquor, trinkets, and cloth.

  They had ceased to trade for liquor recently. Jarrett knew both the Indians and the traders. The Indians had been trading for some very particular commodities—bullets, rifles, and gunpowder.

  Jarrett knew many of the chiefs, and he knew the Seminole society better, he thought sometimes, than he knew his own. There were not just different language groups in the territory, there were many different bands within those groups. There were dozens of clans. Each clan had its own leaders, just as each band had its own chief. Obedience to a higher power was voluntary. When war was called upon by one chief, the message was sent out to other bands. Sticks were collected from each warrior who was willing to fight a certain battle. The name “Red Sticks” had been given to the hostile Creeks of earlier wars because of the sticks collected from warriors and then used at times to shake at the enemy during battle. Because each chief was virtually free to act on his own, small skirmishes could erupt at any time. But because so many Indians had been trading for so much gunpowder, the situation didn’t look good.

  Jarrett was still uneasy about his meeting with Osceola as well. The Indian agent, Wiley Thompson, should have known that even among themselves, within their own law, Seminoles did not chain one another. It was the greatest humiliation. Crimes among the Seminoles were settled at the Green Corn Dance each year. Horrible crimes sometimes demanded the death penalty, sometimes banishment. Sometimes men and women were disfigured by ear or nose clipping for such crimes as adultery, but never was a man chained. Wiley Thompson had been angry and frustrated in his dealings with Osceola, and he had claimed that the Seminole had come into his office spouting verbal abuse, and so he’d had him arrested, cuffed, and brought into the stockade. Thompson was still confident that he’d done the right thing. When he’d heard about what had happened, Jarrett had ridden inland to the fort to confront Thompson, but Thompson had told him that the measure had been necessary to break the confidence and arrogance of such a man as Osceola. Jarrett had left him with a stern warning. He’d done his best to make his own peace with Osceola over the incident. He was one man. There were other whites who knew they had wronged the Indians. That didn’t matter. Those whites would be caught in the crossfire if there was trouble.

  Now Jarrett had a wife to bring home. No matter how secretive he wanted to be about his own life in return, there were things she was going to have to discover. He wanted to have
her home when she discovered them.

  “We’re well enough supplied?” he asked Leo.

  “Aye, sir, that we are. If this breeze picks up, I can have us into Tampa Bay by midmorning, day after tomorrow.”

  Jarrett swallowed down the hot black coffee. It tasted good, sharpening his mind. The fresh salt feel of the air was good too. “I’ll take the helm,” he told Robert, handing back his empty cup to Leo. “I’ll take the best Nathan can round up for a meal as well, Leo, as soon as he’s able.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Leo agreed, and turned to do Jarrett’s bidding.

  But Robert remained several moments at his side.

  Jarrett groaned. “What now?”

  Robert shook his head. “You’re a calm man, Jarrett McKenzie. Had I just acquired such an angel for a wife—”

  “You could have acquired her as easily as I,” Jarrett told him.

  Robert shook his head. “I think not. I’m far more handsome, of course, but … let’s face it. You’re richer. And,” Robert said soberly, “much stronger. You’re what the lady needed. And, I do believe, she’s exactly what you needed.”

  “Well, it all remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Jarrett said. “She is appalled by the prospects of snakes and alligators—what do you think she’ll feel when she discovers the truth of my situation?”

  “Want me to find out?”

  “I’ll slit your throat if you say a word to her.”

  “Not a breath!” Robert promised him. “But what if …”

  “Yes?”

  “What if she does not handle the truth well? What will you do, send her north?”

  Jarrett, his eyes upon the endless waves before them, listening to the splash of the gulf as they knifed through the waters, shook his head stubbornly. “No. She has her secrets, and she made her vows.” He was startled by the vehemence he felt himself. “She has made her bed, Robert. She will lie in it.”

  “Then perhaps you should warn her—”

  “When I’m ready,” Jarrett said determinedly. “I mean that, Robert. When I’m ready.”

  “When we reach Tampa, she’ll hear things.”

  “Probably.”

  “Then—”

  “She’ll have to ask me what she wants to know,” Jarrett persisted firmly.

  “Aye, Captain, as you say!” Robert agreed with an exaggerated sigh. He clipped his heels together and bowed slightly. “I shall help Nathan in the galley and see if I cannot hurry a meal along.”

  He left Jarrett at the helm, and Jarrett discovered that he was glad to be there, alone. The wind felt good, the salt air felt good. The rhythm of the ship beneath his legs felt good. Reliving the events of the night before felt—strange. And reconciling what he had done with his life felt stranger still.

  Tara awoke groggily to a tapping sound. She sat up slowly, feeling almost drugged, very tired, strangely stiff. She blinked briefly, stared at her surroundings with confusion first, remembrance, alarm, and then another rush of remembrance that seemed to burn the entirety of her flesh to a rose blush. Dear Lord, things had moved so swiftly and so desperately, and now …

  The tapping continued. She leapt up, her heart slamming furiously as she dressed with all possible speed. He was back, she thought. No, he was not, for he would never knock. He was her husband. Her mind was spinning. She felt as though she were losing it.

  No, she had lost it last night. Lost so much, gained so much. A flush of fever seemed to seize her again.

  “Tara?” a polite voice queried.

  Dressed, her hair still wildly disheveled, she pulled open the door.

  Robert Treat had come to the cabin door, bearing a silver tray. He balanced the tray while sweeping her a deep, playful bow.

  “Mrs. McKenzie. I am ever your servant on this journey to your new homeland—well, and then for life, I do imagine!” he said lightly.

  She smiled. His manner was charming, infectious. His tawny good looks were appealing, and he had determined, it seemed, that after talking her into marriage with his friend, he was going to make her feel welcome aboard the ship whether his friend intended to or not.

  “Thank you,” she told him, smiling and sweeping him a deep curtsy in return.

  “Will you have this on the desk, Mrs. McKenzie?”

  “What is it?”

  “The most delicious crawfish stew you will ever taste.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” she said.

  He set down the tray and swept the top from the server. He pulled out the captain’s chair and seated her with a flourish, then perched upon a corner of the desk himself.

  “Don’t mind me, I’ve eaten,” he assured her.

  The stew smelled enticing. She was starving. She took him at his word and picked up her spoon for a first taste. It was delicious. She ate more hungrily, then remembered she had company and hesitated.

  “Are you sure—”

  “Mrs. McKenzie, it is late in the day for a weary worker like myself!”

  She arched a brow. “You don’t look overworked at the moment.”

  He laughed. “No, I guess not.”

  “Do you work for Jarrett?”

  “Only upon occasion.”

  “You two are very good friends.”

  “The best. I’d die for him,” Robert said simply.

  She arched a brow again, but he hadn’t intended to be so deadly serious and he told her, “We share an absolute passion for our land.”

  She couldn’t help a slight shiver. “For the bugs and the alligators?” she said lightly.

  “Now, now! Don’t tease until you have seen a sunset! Or perhaps, not until you have touched Juan Ponce de León’s magnificent Fountain of Youth!”

  “It exists?” Tara teased skeptically.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. Who knows? I can promise you this: there are places to be found that offer the greatest enchantment. In fact, marvelous, romantic events took place quite near to where you’ll be living.”

  She arched a brow. “Alligator matings?”

  “Mrs. McKenzie! What an indelicate question!” he laughed.

  “Well, I imagine I am in a rather indelicate position,” she murmured, feeling a telltale rise of heat to her cheeks once again.

  But Robert remained the complete gentleman. “Ah, I shall have to see that you do become enchanted with our little corner of Paradise! Now pay me heed. In 1492, as you are well aware, Columbus discovered the New World. Spaniards started to become very wealthy, stripping treasures out of South America. Now, our good friend Ponce wanted to become wealthy as well, and so he came searching for gold and the fantastic treasures that had been found elsewhere. He discovered the West Indies, then heard fantastic tales about another land where there were gold and riches and clear, magical waters. If a man drank from those waters, he would find eternal health and life. He didn’t find the magical water, or gold, but he did find Florida. And after his death other enterprising Spaniards continued seeking their fortunes. So now comes the beginning of my story. Hernando Cortés was busy becoming a very wealthy man off the wealth of the Aztecs in Mexico. Velasquez, governor of Cuba, was jealous. He sent a man named Pánfilo de Narváez to explore Florida to find the same kinds of riches. Pánfilo de Narváez landed near Tampa Bay, where we are sailing to now, then sent his ships north along the coast to meet him once he had explored the country. At first he met friendly natives, then the Indians grew more hostile. He found no riches and then, when he came back to the coast, he found none of his ships. He and his men grew desperate. They begged to build ships, which they did. They melted down their helmets and shields, and bolts and bars and nails were made from them. Then they set out on their pathetic little boats.”

  “This is a wonderful story, Robert,” Tara told him, laughing. “I can’t wait to get there now.”

  “Hush. I’m getting to the good part. The boats set out. They were nearly all destroyed, and the sailors were either drowned or killed by the natives, except for four survivors who traveled on thr
ough the land to tell the tale.”

  “That was the good part?”

  “Now listen. The wife of Pánfilo de Naváez sent a ship out with supplies for her husband. The sailors saw nothing of Pánfilo, but Indians beckoned them ashore, and two young men came there in a rowboat. They were seized by an Indian chief named Hirrihiqua, who had been very badly treated by Pánfilo de Naváez. The first young man was immediately tortured and killed.”

  “That must be the good part!” Tara said.

  “The second young man,” Robert said sternly, “was Juan Ortiz. And Hirrihiqua was about to torture and kill him. He had him bound and placed over a fire.”

  “Robert—”

  “But the chiefs daughter would have none of it. She flew to her father’s feet, cast herself down before them and wept and pleaded. She begged, sobbed, wept some more.…”

  “And?”

  “Well, he released Juan Ortiz!” Robert said, pleased with the outcome of his story.

  “Aren’t you perhaps borrowing from stories about Pocahontas and John Smith?”

  “No!” Robert said indignantly. “It’s a true story, and it happened long before Pocahontas was even born.”

  “Ah, I see. Did Ortiz then fall in love with the Indian maiden and wed her?”

  “No, actually, the Indians kept him as a slave for many years. Hirrihiqua was a tough man, so it seems. But his daughter was a truly valiant young lady, and saw to it that her fiancé, a young leader from another tribe, took in Ortiz so that he would not be so badly treated. Hirrihiqua then refused to give the young fiancé his daughter, but the fiancé had sworn to protect Ortiz and he did so.”

  “And then?”

  “Ortiz was rescued years later by Hernando de Soto. And I’m not sure of the fate of our young Indian lovers. But it’s a marvelous story, don’t you think?”

  Tara smiled and nodded. “A very nice story—I suppose.”

  “It’s history. I love history. And our history is the oldest in the nation, did you realize that?”