by Beth Trissel
"You know others?"
"Many.” He shifted to her side and stood, pulling her up with him. “I am called Wicomechee."
In her distress, she echoed only the last two syllables. “Mechee?"
He took her arm. “This will serve. Come."
"Where?"
"Where you wish. The woods,” he said with a hint of amusement.
"I never really meant to go,” she stammered.
"Have care what you wish for."
She had prayed too and it certainly wasn't for this.
He forced her back past the trees along the river. In dread of what she'd find, Charity looked ahead to their log home on the hill. The clearing mist revealed several dozen warriors carrying away Aunt Mary's prized woven blankets, cherished cooking pots, and sacks of cornmeal. Others bore cured hams, kegs of apple brandy and whiskey, to load the plunder on Uncle John's sturdy horses.
The gray mare, chestnut gelding, and black and white piebald tossed their heads and whinnied. Warriors grabbed at their reins while the speckled red-combed chickens cackled, flapping, in the yard. Squealing pigs loosed from their pen bolted through the garden, trampling orange pumpkins. The placid cow galloped into the woods behind the log barn.
Charity's burning thought was the fate of the others. “Aunt Mary! Uncle John! Emma! James—” she choked on her young cousin's name.
No one replied. She sought their familiar figures in mounting desperation. “What's become of them?"
"I cannot say,” Wicomechee replied.
One answer came in the form of a woman's screams. Across the meadow, Emma struggled in the grasp of a fearsome warrior. The hair from the back and sides of his head had been plucked, leaving a glistening scalp lock on top. His powerful painted form eclipsed the petite young woman.
"No! Let her go!” Charity wrenched away from Wicomechee and bounded toward her cousin.
He sprang after her. Seizing her shoulders, he jerked her to a halt. “You wish to fight Chaka?"
"Help Emma, Mechee. Please."
Chaka snatched off Emma's cap to tug at the knot of hair on her fair head. Sunlit lengths cascaded to her waist. “That woman is the golden-haired one,” Wicomechee said, as though this were of great significance. “Come."
Charity hastened with him. How did he know about Emma?
"Chaka!” Wicomechee shouted.
Chaka turned toward them with a menacing grin and combed his fingers suggestively through Emma's blond curls.
Wicomechee spoke in his native tongue, but his anger needed no translation.
Chaka's taunting smile faded. Defiance glinting in his eyes, he grunted out a reply.
Wicomechee stopped a few yards away from them and hissed a command.
Chaka jerked the weeping woman around. “Waupee's?” he sneered, sweeping one hand at her swollen abdomen.
Charity stared in confusion. “What's happening?"
Wicomechee answered gruffly. “Chaka says this woman is not my brother's wife. She carries the child of another."
"Of course she's not. Emma is wed to Edward Estell."
"No longer. Waupee will want her back."
Charity couldn't fathom what claim this Waupee had to Emma. Only one matter was vital now and she shouted at the menacing brave who grasped her cousin. “Let Emma go!"
Chaka fastened black eyes on Charity. “Metchi scoote. You have much fire.” He restrained the sobbing woman with one hand and gestured at Charity with his other. “Trade me for your red-haired woman, Wicomechee."
Charity shrank from Chaka's probing stare to press against Wicomechee who'd terrified her only minutes ago. Ironic, but he was her and Emma's best chance of survival.
He shook his head. “No trade."
Chaka returned his chilling grin to Charity. “I like your captive."
"Do not touch her."
"She is the daughter of an English dog.” Chaka raked Emma with his contemptuous stare. “This one also."
"Release the wife of Waupee,” Wicomechee demanded.
Chaka drew a wicked knife. “I'll have her scalp first."
Wicomechee sprang with the speed of a striking snake and clamped his fingers around Chaka's muscular arm. Chaka flung Emma to the grass and grappled with Wicomechee. Emma crawled out of their way and collapsed, shaking violently.
Charity ran to her cousin. Dropping to her knees, she bent over her protectively, unable to do more with bound wrists. “I pray the ruthless warrior doesn't win this, Emma."
The knife loosed from Chaka's grip, Wicomechee heaved his adversary onto his side. Wicomechee's chest rose and fell as he threaded Chaka's arm through his own legs, seizing it from behind and grasping his other. Charity was so engrossed in their combat she scarcely noticed the approaching rider until he was almost upon them.
She lurched from the battling warriors at the drum of hooves. “Who—"
Chest heaving from his all out struggle with Chaka, Wicomechee glanced around to see his English brother rein in his horse. The wind whipped the loose chestnut hair hanging around his shoulders and over his blue hunting shirt.
Charity sucked in her breath. “Good heavens. Colin Dickson?"
Wicomechee knew that English name, though he called the adopted warrior Waupee. Glancing to the side, he observed the golden haired woman huddled on the grass beside Charity. Tearful eyes the color of a brooding sky were fixed on the former Englishman as if he'd returned from the grave; so he might as well have done. He was dead to the white world.
Waupee rushed past the women to where Wicomechee and Chaka clashed like two great elk. “Do we lack sufficient enemies that you two must battle—again?"
Wicomechee fought to keep the upper hand over the brave bucking in his hold. “Chaka would take your woman's scalp."
"By heaven, I'll have yours, Chaka!” Waupee hurled back, and drew the silver-mounted dagger from the sash at his waist.
"No,” Wicomechee grunted, “I'll finish this.” In a surge of power, like a mighty wind, he flung Chaka onto his back. Breathing hard, he bent over him, “Surrender the woman now."
"Take her,” Chaka bit out. “I go."
Wicomechee rolled aside. The sullen brave stood, blood trickling from his mouth, and picked up his knife.
Waupee turned toward the golden haired one. “Are you all right, Emma?"
"Colin—” she sobbed.
"My poor darling.” Fury replaced the fleeting tenderness in Waupee's blue eyes and he rounded on Chaka. “Bastard! If you ever come near her again I'll—” he caught himself, hissing the rest of his threat, one Wicomechee didn't doubt his ability to carry out. He had taught his brother well.
Chaka gave a grudging nod and turned away. Wicomechee might have forced him to relinquish Waupee's woman, but the look he shot at Charity in passing held vindictive promise. Her face whitened as he strode off across the meadow. Anger hazed Wicomechee's mind. Always, Chaka wanted what was his.
"I owe you, Wicomechee, for coming to Emma's aid."
Waupee's gratitude returned his focus to his white brother. “You owe me nothing. Now you have what you want?"
"Oh, yes.” Waupee reached Emma in three strides and knelt beside her. He gathered her against him and she clung to him, weeping as though she'd never stop. He pressed his lips to her head. “Hush...no one will harm you now."
Charity seemed astonished at the attachment between the distraught woman and this former gentleman. Did none know?
With visions of furious Scotsmen on their heels, Wicomechee grasped her arm and pulled her up. “Come with me."
"Wait—please.” Eyes searching, Charity swiveled her head at the smoky homestead. “What of the others?"
Wicomechee paused. “What of the family, NiSawsawh?"
Waupee looked up, remorse in his face. “I'm terribly sorry I didn't reach you sooner, Emma. I was securing the life of your little brother."
"James is safe? Thank God,” she choked out against him.
Charity heaved an enormous sigh. “And Au
nt Mary?"
"I expect she escaped."
Her lips trembled. “Uncle John?"
Waupee's jaw tightened; plainly, he'd rather not answer. “I tried to persuade John McLeod to surrender. He refused."
The woman called Emma cried, “What are you saying?"
"One brave grew impatient and fired. I deeply regret I was unable to prevent your father's death."
Charity crumpled like an injured bird tumbling to the ground. She staggered in Wicomechee's grasp and he steadied her with his hand on her shoulder. Her eyes flashed to his in surprise, as though she expected no kindness from a warrior. Then tears welled in her green gaze.
Emma seized Waupee's upper arms and shook him; his solid form yielded little under her frenzied assault. “I don't understand! You make it sound as if you're in charge!"
He grasped her wrists. “In a way, I am."
"How? Why? Your being here makes no sense—"
"Wicomechee and his grandfather found me in the frontier two years ago. I've lived with the Shawnee ever since."
"Couldn't you escape, Mister Dickson?” Charity asked.
Wicomechee cast her a disdainful look. “Where would Waupee go? The English seek his life."
Charity gulped. “This is Waupee? What kind of trouble drove you to the Indians, Mister Dickson?"
"A duel—"
Emma's strangled cry drowned him out. “I thought you were never coming back. Why have you returned now?"
"For your sake. When I learned war parties were headed to the valley, I agreed to lead one of the groups."
Emma's liquid gaze grew molten. “Colin—how could you?"
"To assure I was with the men coming here. Warriors are raiding settlements along this stretch of river. Was I simply to hope yours was overlooked? It's a prominent homestead."
Emma writhed to escape him and her blond hair flew about them both. “Traitor—"
"Stop this at once, Emma,” Waupee said sternly, but failed to stem her mounting hysteria.
"Think of the baby,” Charity pleaded, to no avail.
They could delay no longer. “Enough,” Wicomechee said, and knelt beside the struggling woman. Clasping her face between his palms, he forced her to meet his flinty stare. “My brother is no traitor. We would find you. Shawnee take captives or leave bodies. Which do you prefer?"
Emma swallowed and grew still. Wicomechee dropped his hands and stood while she slumped, weeping, against Waupee.
Wicomechee waved at the trees. “We must go, NiSawsawh. The militia will chase us like a she-bear after her cubs."
Waupee stood, drawing the shaken women up with him. He glanced at Charity. “Is it necessary to bind that poor girl?"
"She runs like the deer. Perhaps I will bind her legs."
Charity reeled, stopped short by the tightening of Wicomechee's fingers on her arm. She eyed him uncertainly.
He returned her study with the inscrutability of a wolf. Better she not know his full intent.
Waupee shook his head at him. “You're frightening her."
"Good. She must not escape me."
"Give my brother no trouble, Miss Edmondson, and you will be well,” Waupee said, and whistled for his horse.
"Don't leave me, Mister Dickson,” she pleaded.
"We will meet often, Miss Edmondson. It's a long journey to the Ohio Country."
Not one Charity seemed persuaded she would survive. She stared after the retreating rider, auburn brows drawn beneath a smooth forehead. Her finely arched nose sniffed and lips the hue of the rosy dawn quivered.
A twinge of jealousy shot through Wicomechee. Shrugging off the volatile stab, he pulled his knife from the beaded skin sheath at his side. “Stay still,” he said tersely, put out with himself.
Charity's shaky trust evaporated at the sight of the blade and she bolted. He sprang after her. Circling his arm around her waist, he jerked her to a halt. “Do you not know the meaning of still?"
"And wait while you do what—slit my throat?"
"Your skirts, to pass more easily through the trees."
She stood as if poised for flight while he knelt and slashed through her petticoats. Wielding the knife like an old friend, he shortened the layers to just below her knees. Her cream-colored stockings and shapely legs were visible now. He must find some leggings to shield her skin from briars. Meanwhile, he savored the appealing sight.
Forcing his attention back to the task at hand, he stuffed some of the linen into his pouch. He retook her arm. “We are behind,” he said, and sped her through the meadow so quickly she had to run to keep up with his strides.
Acrid smoke stained the blue sky. She slanted tearful eyes at the flames consuming the log house and outbuildings. Pity touched him at the pain in her face, but he would have another bout of hysteria on his hands if he didn't keep moving. He hurried her past the flaming homestead and field where her guardian lay beside the plow he'd never use again.
Charity jerked against him as if to run to her kinsman. “Uncle John was a good man! He wasn't even armed!"
Wicomechee pulled her up. “Hush."
She only reached midway up his chest and tilted her head to shout at him. “You are cowards to strike him down!"
He clapped his hand over her lips, imprisoning her in his arms. Enticing curves tempted him from beneath her cloak. She smelled of hickory smoke and the scent of soap clung to her hair. As his grandfather predicted, this enraged woman was the find of a lifetime and he must work fast to keep her.
Hot tears spilled over his hand. “I did not kill your uncle,” he said, easing his grip on her supple lips.
"Only because another killed him first."
"No. NiSawsawh, my brother, did not wish his death."
"You may be his friend, but you're my enemy and always—"
"Be still.” He clamped his palm back down and sensed her defiance, as if she wanted to wrestle him to the ground as he had Chaka. “Or I will bind your mouth."
Charity gave a short nod and he slid his hand from her lips. She wiped her damp face on her cloak, smoldering rebellion in her eyes. Most women were easily suppressed. This one would bear close watching.
He steered her forward and they overtook the war party. The men's stony faces were set on swift retreat. He joined the single-file formation and positioned her in front of him. She hiked the trail in tearful silence, each step taking them farther away from the fenced-in meadows and plowed fields so beloved by settlers. As they ventured into the woods, the earthy musk of plants and crumbling leaves enveloped them. Here lay the realm of warriors and frontiersmen—his realm.
Shafts of light poured through the dark forest where the boughs had been torn away and storm-felled trees lay toppled like slain giants. The burnished leaves shone. Birdcalls echoed from high branches. A doe flashed her white tail, an elk bugled, sights and sounds that stirred Wicomechee's blood.
On they journeyed, and the sun heated the air even under the leafy cover. Charity's feet dragged. Wicomechee took her cloak. She wore no jacket, only a skirted-bodice laced up over her shift. The nut-brown top molded her rounded breasts, triggering a more rapid heartbeat in him than the march alone. As for her hair, he both admired and resented the coppery-red mantle. Like a scent long ago remembered, her hair lured him back into a past he'd shoved deep inside him, and yet, he yearned to run his fingers through the glowing spill.
Sweat trickled down over Charity's face, her chest heaved, and her shoulders sagged. She gazed longingly through the leaves at the stream. He would willingly let her stop to drink, but if he did they would fall far behind his party.
A root snagged her unsteady foot and she lurched onto the trail, striking her knee on a stone. She lay clutching her leg, shaking with sobs. If he didn't tend to her, some impatient brave might put a permanent end to her suffering.
Motioning the others past, he knelt beside her. “Charity, let me see.” She made no objection as he turned her over and lightly pressed his fingers around her gashed knee.
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She peered through pain-glazed eyes at the blood running down her torn stocking and gasped, “I've lamed myself."
"No.” He slid his arms beneath her and lifted her.
She slumped in his hold.
Relishing the feel of his burden, he carried her past yellow chestnuts covered with scarlet vines, through drifts of tawny fern, to the stream. He laid her on a bed of moss beside the water. She sank down and was still as he cupped the cold water in his hands and poured it over her knee again and again to numb her injury.
"The cut is not deep. Very bruised."
She watched him take fluff from his pouch and pack the wound. “Buzzard down,” he said. Retrieving a strip of linen, he bound the dressing in place. “Is the pain less?"
She gazed at him with wide eyes, her dark fringe of lashes beaded with tears, and nodded. “Thank you."
"You will not run from me now, I think.” The late day sun touched his blade as he drew his knife and cut her cords.
She rubbed her wrists and bent near the stream to cup long mouthfuls of water. Lengths of her hair trailed in the clear ripples, mirroring the russet leaves swirling by. She was like a fair spirit of the woods. Her coloring blended with the autumn hues perfectly.
"I could drink forever,” she said between gulps.
He knelt beside her to drink. “You would burst."
She splashed her face then flopped down onto her side at the stream's edge. “I should like to climb in there."
He tore his gaze from her bodice that had slipped down to reveal the tops of mounded breasts. Leaves colored like glass beads rustled overhead, but the shadows lengthened among the trees. “You would shake with cold. The day is far gone."
She closed her eyes. “If I had something to eat I would ask nothing more than to sleep for a while."
"What of the nuts and berries you will eat?"
She looked up at him in drowsy bewilderment.
"You spoke of this,” he reminded her.
"Oh. I'm not able to seek anything now."
As he thought, she was ignorant of survival out here. Taking strips of dried venison from the pouch at his waist, he gave them to her. She devoured each scrap and ran the tip of her pink tongue over her lips.
"You eat like the wolf,” he said, determined not to let her inviting mouth distract him from their urgent journey.
