Runaway

by Heather Graham

  “I hate you!” she whispered again.

  He was silent. “Indeed, Tara! Perhaps you are not the wife I needed here!” he murmured after a moment. His tone was flat. Laced with disappointment.

  She would have turned then—should have turned to him. But his warmth was suddenly gone, for he had turned away from her.

  This wasn’t what she had wanted, to part in bitterness. She’d wanted him to understand that she was afraid. Not for herself. For him. And she didn’t want to be away from him. The words never came out right. She was afraid to speak the truth.

  She suddenly thought of what he had said to her. She was the one who always brought up Lisa. Perhaps she was. Well, he had loved her. But maybe he was the one living in the present while she was the one dwelling with fears of the past.

  She tried to moisten her lips. Tried to speak. She couldn’t find the words she wanted to say. She lay there, awake, miserable.

  Finally, she turned to him. His back was to her. “Jarrett?” she whispered softly. She tried to practice the words she would say to him in her mind. I simply don’t want you to leave. I am afraid that you will not be able to be neutral forever, that white soldiers will turn against you, that a renegade Indian will pierce your heart with shot or arrow. I’m afraid that you won’t come back, and now I’m afraid that you won’t even want to come back.

  “Jarrett?” she whispered again softly. He didn’t respond.

  She bit her lip. She lay again in misery. He had turned his back on her—washed his hands of her. He had been disappointed in her once, and he was doubly so now. She had said that she hated him. She wanted to take the words back.

  She wanted to say …

  “Jarrett! I love you!” she whispered aloud.

  But she was still speaking to his bronzed back. She bit into her lower lip, catching her breath, listening for his. It came, deeply, evenly.

  He hadn’t heard her. She had found the right words to say, but had said them too late.

  Or perhaps he had heard her. Perhaps he was feigning sleep now because he had heard her and just didn’t care.

  She caught a sob in her throat and turned her back to him again. A weight of agony lay with her in the night.

  Yet finally she slept. For when she opened her eyes again, the room was filled with bright yellow daylight. Candles and fire had burned out. The sun lit upon tiny dust motes in the air, making them dazzle.

  Her bed was cold.

  She turned swiftly. It was empty as well.

  Once again Jarrett was gone.

  And she realized that she, like the bed, was empty.

  And cold.

  Dear God. So very, very cold.

  Chapter 18

  Tara did little but move about Cimarron in a mechanical way the first few days after Jarrett left, but on the fourth morning, as she sat at the dressing table brushing her hair, she suddenly remembered what Robert had come to tell them.

  James, Naomi, Mary, the children, and all those within their village would be leaving very soon, and she didn’t know how far away they would go, or how often she would be able to see them once they had gone. Without Jarrett at Cimarron she not only felt laden down by the wretched way that they had parted, but she was lonely and anxious as well, and she longed to be with people.

  Well aware now that the trails she might travel could grow dangerous, Tara went to Rutger first, hoping that now an excursion to the village would not be something Jarrett’s men would deny her. She tried to tell him casually that she wanted to spend some time with her sister-in-law, yet she could barely breathe with nervousness while awaiting his answer.

  She might have asked him to escort her on nothing more difficult than a stroll in the garden, he was so quick to try to help her.

  “I don’t know exactly where the camp is, Mrs. McKenzie, but I’ll send young Peter ahead, and he’ll find one of the village sentries. Leo and I will take you in the hammock, and an escort will find us there. But if you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d ask you for a day or two here for me to catch up.”

  She agreed that would be fine.

  Rutger and Leo acted as her escort two days later. They left Cimarron early in the morning and arrived near the village just in the afternoon. Long before they could actually see the encampment, painted warriors stepped from the cypress trees, crying out a greeting. They were guarding the camp, Tara realized, and she was pained to see the danger they considered themselves to be in.

  “White soldiers ride the land now,” one of the men, the warrior Oklawaha, or Twisted River, told her. His English was stilted; he was not comfortable with it, but he made himself clear. “Not so close as yet … but …?” He lifted his arms in a shrug. “I will see that the White Tiger’s woman reaches her family,” he assured Rutger solemnly.

  “Thank you,” Tara said.

  “I’ll come back in two days’ time,” Rutger told her. She thanked him as well and smiled and waved to Leo, then watched with her Indian guide as the men turned to head back to Cimarron.

  “Come, I’ll take you in,” Oklawaha told her. Running ahead of Tara he let out a cry that warned the others in the camp that he was coming with a rider, but a friend, not a soldier.

  Tara was instantly dismayed to see the camp—it was so painfully evident that its inhabitants were planning on leaving. All manner of household goods were packed up, pots and pans, guns, powder bags, kegs. A huge travois lay in front of the large cabin where Naomi and James lived with their daughters, and it was piled high with their belongings and covered with skins.

  She leapt down from her horse as they entered the clearing. Naomi, having heard the warrior’s cry, came out of the cabin. She smiled broadly and ran to hug Tara. Tara hugged her fervently in return. “I’d hoped you’d come! I thought you might after Jarrett came through.”

  “Jarrett came here?”

  Naomi nodded. “James went with him to find Osceola.”

  “Oh!”

  “I knew then that you’d be at Cimarron alone, and I didn’t want to press you, but I was so anxious for you to come! I’ve never had a sister, and now that I’ve found a sister-in-law again, I’m to lose her almost instantly!”

  Tara shook her head. “You won’t lose me.”

  Naomi smiled sadly. “Well, it will be difficult. We have to go south and east—into swampland. Where we can live, but where the soldiers will have difficulty following.”

  “Naomi, this can’t last forever.”

  She sighed deeply. “We have to fight forever—or let them send us west.”

  “But they can’t force James to do anything, they can’t! His father—”

  “Tara! You know that James will not call himself white to gain a foothold when his people cannot surrender!”

  She did know it. And she was outraged for these people, just as she had been horrified about the settlers who had been burned out and killed.

  And she had tormented Jarrett on this very point, when she felt the tearing anguish of it herself! She wanted to sit down in the center of the cabin and cry. If she could only go back and unsay so many things!

  She couldn’t. She could only pray that he wasn’t too disappointed with her. That he wouldn’t decide he was weary of battling her, that he no longer wanted a wife.

  “Let’s not think of the future for the moment. Come inside and visit with Mary. Then, if you wish, you can help me pack.”

  “Can someone start me a fire in Jarrett’s cabin? I would do so myself, but I’m afraid of burning it down,” she told Naomi.

  “Anyone would be glad to help you. You’re welcome to sleep with us. No, I think you’d rather be in his cabin.”

  Tara smiled, slightly startled by Naomi’s intuition. “Yes, I guess I would.”

  “He will be safe, you know.”

  “I hope.”

  “Osceola will never hurt him. I know you think that Osceola is a vicious murderer, but he is a man of great convictions, and he keeps his word. He would not fight Jarrett.”

&
nbsp; “Thank you for the reassurance. But there are other warriors out there, men who may not agree with Osceola.”

  “More so than the whites, the Indians cherish a man they can trust. Even if he is, by the color of his flesh, the enemy. But come now; Mary will be delighted to see you.”

  Tara shared koonti bread and fresh cow’s milk with Mary—who greeted her as warmly as if she were, indeed, a daughter—Naomi, and the children. Two of the village boys came to assure them that they would light her fire for the night. Mary then returned to her own cabin to rest, the girls went out to play, and Naomi looked about the cabin, sighing as she saw what she still had to pack.

  “How will you live?” Tara asked Naomi unhappily.

  Naomi shrugged. “We have run before. And we will not manage so badly. We will sleep in our hooties—”

  “What?”

  Naomi laughed. “A ‘hootie’ is like a lean-to, quickly thrown up, roofed by cabbage palms. Easy to leave again.”

  “Oh, Naomi!” Tara said unhappily.

  “I’m just grateful that you came to say good-bye. We’ll break this camp just as soon as James returns. It won’t be so hard again, because we’ll stay ready to run.”

  “I just wish—I wish there were something I could do.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Then I wish that I could help.”

  Naomi smiled. “Then perhaps you’ll take a walk with the girls. They’re underfoot when I’m trying to pack up the things we will take.”

  Tara smiled. “Children are like that everywhere,” she said softly.

  “They do their share of the work, little as they are. They weave cabbage palms, they even do well with cleaning skins. We learn young here. But you’re right, children remain children, and they are very much aware of the move, and they are more hindrance now when they try to help.”

  “Little white ones are much the same!”

  “I imagine, though I really know little about white children. I was so anxious to hold Lisa’s white baby—oh, I’m sorry, Tara.”

  Tara shook her head and Naomi set a hand on her arm. “You mustn’t be afraid of having children because of Lisa. The circumstances were tragic but accidental!”

  Tara shook her head again. She didn’t want to tell Naomi that she wasn’t afraid of having children, she was simply afraid that her husband might not want them very much anymore—not with her.

  “You have white blood in you,” Tara reminded Naomi with a smile.

  “Diluted!” Naomi said with a laugh. “In fact, I could just imagine trying to tell one of the white soldiers that I was part white!”

  “Naomi …”

  “I know!” she whispered. “I know that Osceola and Wildcat and other warriors attack plantations and kill your people. I wish that—I just wish that the war would end. And that we might all be allowed peace. But—I don’t think it can ever end. I think we’ll be running forever.

  “Oh, Naomi.”

  “Go with the children, please. They love you, and they’ll be distracted for a while. For now, we are only moving deeper into the marshland, and we will still see each other now and then!”

  Tara embraced Naomi. Naomi called out for the children, and Jennifer and Sara hurried into the cabin. They cried out with delight when they heard that Tara was going to play with them. “I guess we’ll start with a walk!” Tara told the two, glad of the complete love and trust in the huge, beautiful eyes that turned up to hers.

  “Don’t get lost,” Naomi warned.

  “We’ll head west,” Tara said, thinking that she would follow the trails that went just beyond the stream she knew so well. Indian country. She’d be safe with the girls there.

  “Don’t wander too far,” Naomi warned.

  “I’ll stay close.”

  Tara started away from the village with the children, telling them that they shouldn’t be worried, their parents would be taking them on a big adventure.

  “We’re running away from the white soldiers!” Sara told her gravely.

  “You are going to where it’s safer,” Tara agreed. “But perhaps it won’t be for very long. Or perhaps you’ll like your new village better.”

  Jennifer sniffed. “It will be away from you.”

  “Not so far. You’ve got me now; you won’t lose me so easily!” she teased.

  Jennifer, holding Tara’s hand, set it next to her cheek and rubbed against it. Tara bit into her lip, wishing there were something else she could say to the children.

  “Hey! Let’s play a game. It’s called hide-and-go-seek. You two go forward a bit into the trees, then I’ll come running after you and find you.”

  “All right,” Sara agreed, eyes alight. “Come, Jennifer, take my hand!”

  Jennifer let go of Tara and went running after her sister. Tara didn’t want them really getting ahead, so she gave them only a ten-second head start. She caught up with them, spun them, hugged them.

  They ran off again. She caught them the same way. Delighted, the girls demanded that they get to play one last time.

  “All right, then, run along!” she said. She gasped for a few minutes, catching her breath. Then she started after them for the third time.

  But just as she slipped onto the trail, she paused with a frown. She could feel something, a beat, a rhythm of the earth. Then she realized that horses were coming, a number of them.

  She didn’t think that there should have been so many horses. Many of the Indians had mounts, but James was away with several of his warriors.

  Some inner sense suddenly warned her that a terrible danger was approaching.

  “Jennifer, Sara, come here! Now. We aren’t playing!” she called out. She heard a giggle. The threat of tears seemed to tighten her voice. “I am not playing, you must come to me, now!”

  They sensed the danger. Both little girls streaked out of the trees, huge eyes on Tara.

  Her first instinct was to run for the village. But through the trees she could see blue uniforms. Soldiers.

  She didn’t want to lead them to the village.

  Instead she swooped up the children and started running as fast as she could in the direction of Cimarron. Foolish! she thought. She could never make it. With a horse, yes, but her mount was in the village. She was simply determined now to get as far from here as she could.

  She ran down the trail, gasping for breath. With a child clasped in either arm, she was wearing down quickly. Yet still, she thought that she could reach one of the marshy copses she was coming to know, perhaps hide until the soldiers had passed by.

  She wished that she had headed east—that she were on her own property. She would have some rights that way. But this was Indian land—or, at least, according to the Treaty of Moultrie Creek—it had been Indian land.

  That would make the soldiers feel they had every right to be here.

  Just when she thought she might have escaped, a blue-clad soldier on a handsome army horse suddenly came down the trail straight toward her.

  She was trapped.

  She came to a dead standstill in the center of the trail, clutching the children to her.

  The man was regular army, Tara thought, one of those sent here with the thousands from the federal government. On his horse he seemed tall. He was slender with a sharp face, a goatee, and a slick-curled mustache.

  “Well, well, well!” he called out. “What have we here!”

  He drew his horse to a halt, dismounting. Tara could hear other soldiers draw up behind her. She didn’t turn. She kept her eyes on the man who had accosted her first.

  “What do you want?” Tara demanded, trying very hard not to show how she was shaking.

  The man pointed to her arms. “The Seminole brats!” he snapped out.

  “Why?” she asked imperiously.

  “Why?” he repeated, stripping off yellow gloves as he took another few steps toward her. He looked behind her to the mounted men in his company. Tara turned slightly. That’s what it was. One company, she thought.
Scouting? Perhaps just looking for small villages, eager to slay everyone within them and burn them to the ground.

  They would know that most of the warriors were out, following the war chiefs. It would be a good military tactic to many to sweep down and kill old men, women, and children.

  James had been right. The war was coming after him whether he wanted it or not.

  “Why?” the soldier began again, directing his men. “Why on earth!” he said, laughing, and came nearer Tara, thrusting his face toward her. “Because little brats grow up to be big Indians. With rifles and knives. Because I don’t want to see a white scalp on one of these little heathens’ shirt sash in another twelve years, that’s why!”

  “These are little girls!” Tara said angrily.

  “Little girls—little Injuns, lady. They’ll grow up to make more redskins. Hell, ain’t you realized it yet? There is no good Indian but a dead one, and it don’t matter what its age! Who the hell are you and what are you doing out here anyway?”

  “Tara McKenzie, and we are bordering my land!” she snapped back.

  “McKenzie?” The name took him aback. One of the other soldiers rode forward.

  “Captain, sir, can I speak with you?” he said anxiously. The captain followed him a few feet away.

  “He’s going to kill us!” Sara said, trying to sound wise and unafraid. “He’s going to swing us around and around, and bash our heads in against a tree!” she said in a hush. No matter how brave a little Seminole girl should be, she was trembling with fear and tears filled her eyes.

  “Sweetheart, he will have to kill Aunt Tara first, I swear it,” she promised, planting a quick kiss on each little forehead. How things changed! It had not been so very long ago that the very idea of a Seminole had sent her into terror. She had almost believed it herself that the only good Indian was a dead one! The white soldiers didn’t know; they hadn’t seen that people were people, with desires, hopes, dreams, fears. Born to love, to hurt, to age, to die.

  “Aunt Tara—” Jennifer began.

  “Shush!” Tara said quickly, because she had to hear what the men were saying.

  “He’s an important man in the territory, owns all kinds of land, no title, but he sometimes works for the army, for Zach Taylor, straight through Andrew Jackson! If she’s his wife …”