by Beth Trissel
"He will tell you in his own way.” Colin leaned down and held out his hand. “Let's have you up."
Puzzled and a little alarmed, she took his hand and got to her feet, walking with him to where Emma lay curled in her cloak like a slumbering cat. The wine-colored hood hid much of her face, but her cheek and long, closed lashes peeked out.
"Poor darling.” Colin knelt and gently shook her. She parted rosy lips in a yawn as he slid his arm beneath her and lifted her from the blanket. “We must return to the cave and see to Lily. You and Charity can rest while we await the third war party. I can't imagine what's keeping them."
Charity shook her head. “I'm not setting foot in that cave with Chaka there, Mister Dickson."
"Fine. I'll toss him out."
Emma blinked in alarm. “No, Colin. You mustn't."
Charity hadn't meant to distress her. Neither could she possibly go back there. “Would Posetha guide me to Mechee?"
Colin seemed surprised. “You really want to go to him?"
Strangely, she found that she did. “Yes, please."
"Perhaps you'd be better off with my brother just now, if he can be found.” His lips twitched. “Keep an eye on the stars, Miss Edmondson."
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Chapter Four
Charity followed Posetha toward the overlook where he thought Wicomechee kept watch somewhere further up the tree-shrouded ridge. A woof sounded behind her and the beagle brushed against her legs. She stopped to stroke his ears. “May he come with us?"
Posetha paused ahead of her and gave a shrug. “Yes."
"Megwich. He ought to have a name."
"Weshe is dog in Shawnee.” Taking a wrinkled brown root from his pouch, Posetha sliced two aromatic pieces and handed one to her. “Gensang. Good for the stomach. For more also."
She chewed, savoring the sweet taste. He popped a piece into his mouth and proceeded at a pace her knee could tolerate, seeming more like an amiable escort than her enemy.
A woodpecker hammered overhead as the first men in a line of warriors appeared in front of them. The drum of the bird had muffled their stealthy approach, and a bend in the trail hid the emerging figures. Even without the distraction, she wouldn't have detected their coming, like silent owls winging across the sky.
Posetha stepped to one side of the trail and pulled her with him. “It is all right. They are Shawnee."
These tidings weren't equally reassuring to Charity. The men's forbidding expressions spurred her apprehension. More braves walked by, fifteen so far. This must be the third war party Colin had mentioned, their mood entirely unlike the other two bands. “What's wrong?” she whispered to Posetha.
"Bad fight.” He pointed to a warrior with an ugly leg wound leaning on the support of a friend and hobbling along. Another man's bloody shoulder bore witness to a musket blast.
A young warrior hailed Posetha. “Stay here, Charity,” he said, and headed toward his friend.
She watched the sullen procession file past. Her stomach lurched at the sight of two braves dragging a young man by a thong around his neck, his wrists bound, torn shirt bloodied. He was a strapping man, but the beatings had laid him low.
Dear God. That swollen bleeding face belonged to Rob Buchanan, the man her guardians wanted her to marry.
One of the warriors dragging Rob gave him a vicious kick. The other brave plunged a fist into his stomach. Rob doubled over, groaning. Two other warriors ahead of him turned around and joined in the assault. Rob fell down onto his knees, struggling vainly to rise under the blows raining down on him. The first warrior kicked him to the ground and the others pounded at him with their fists. He lay face down, moaning.
"For God's sake—stop!” Hurtling past the startled warriors, Charity shouldered one brave aside and threw herself over Rob's barely conscious form. “Leave him be! Leave him be!” The loyal dog punctuated her screams with ear-bending barks.
The staring warriors paused in their attack and stood like statues carved of flesh and blood. Posetha rushed to her side and closed his arms around her waist. “Come away."
Digging her toes into the earth, she clung to Rob's bloody back. “I won't leave him to die. Make them stop!"
"I cannot.” Posetha tore her from Rob.
The moment of stunned stillness ended. Grumbling angrily, the warriors closed in on her like wolves for the kill. Posetha, alone, didn't seem enough of a barrier to the snarling pack. “Mechee! Mechee! Help me!” God let him hear.
"Be still, girl,” a low voice hissed from behind.
She turned her head. The clustered men allowed a powerful warrior through the circle—surely the most menacing brave yet. He glared down at her with slitted eyes.
"Your cries wake even the trees. If Long Knives are near, they will hear you. Silence weshe, Posetha."
Posetha released Charity and grabbed the outraged dog, muzzling him with his hand. “Okema, Chief Outhowwa,” he said. His quiet voice held fear.
Black terror constricted her stomach and her legs grew weak. Even if Posetha hadn't told her this was the chief, she would have guessed. Everything about Outhowwa spoke of crushing strength and the knowledge that comes with hard experience. Sunlight touched his gleaming scalp lock and the silver pendants hanging from his split wire-wrapped earlobes.
Bear claws dangled from the necklace around his thick neck and rested on his chest. Four parallel scars ran from just below his right eye to the iron set of his jaw in testimony to the price he'd paid for this gruesome prize.
She clenched her teeth against another desperate cry. One blow from the club in his fist would splinter her skull.
Outhowwa dismissed her with a contemptuous glance and addressed the warriors in Shawnee. Her dread intensified with each alien word he spat out. He was passing a harsh sentence.
Posetha inserted himself between Charity and Outhowwa and pleaded with the incensed chief. That much was evident in his impassioned tone and face. Unspeakably grateful for his presence, she strained to discern the impact he'd had.
Outhowwa's scornful gaze raked him, and her heart sank.
Again, Posetha appealed to the menacing figure.
Some of the surrounding heads nodded, but Outhowwa eyed Posetha as he might a squashed toad. He hissed a reply.
Posetha colored and opened his mouth.
"Puckechey!” Outhowwa barked, and pointed at the trail.
With agony in his face, Posetha firmed up his grip on the dog and ran with him back toward the cave. Charity watched his retreating figure in dismay. He couldn't possibly bring Colin in time to appease such fury. She was as good as dead.
Slumping to her knees, she pressed her cheek against Rob's bloodied shirt. His back was warm beneath her, but he didn't move. She could barely speak. “God help us, Rob, or we shall perish together.” It seemed the height of irony to die for the suitor she'd badly wanted to evade.
"Charity?” he murmured, and drifted away again.
She envied Rob his unconscious state. Her senses prickled with the awareness of glowering warriors and the chief poised behind her ready to strike. She clutched Rob's limp hand, but found no comfort. She must face Outhowwa alone and lifted her eyes to his narrow gaze. “Have mercy."
Outhowwa's grim features made it clear he would grant none. “You did what is not done.” He lifted his club.
She squeezed her eyes against the death blow. She'd soon be reunited with her brother and father, she told herself, and uttered a final petition. “Have mercy on my soul, O Lord."
"Outhowwa! Naga!"
Her eyes flew open at Wicomechee's voice. Hope rose in her like a bird fleeing the hunter's snare. “Mechee!"
Wicomechee's chest pounded beneath his shirt from his race down the ridge. Charity's anguished shrieks had sent cold dread knifing through his heart, unlike anything he'd ever imagined. She must be in dire peril to call out to him. Her name for him swelled in his ears. She still lived.
He glimpsed her crouched over a fallen f
igure. Her wealth of red hair covered them both, but he didn't dare look into her face. Rather, he kept his eyes on the irate chief. “This woman belongs to me, Outhowwa,” he said in English so Charity could follow the exchange.
Outhowwa regarded him coldly, but lowered his arm. “You? Posetha is her captor—"
"Posetha?” Where had Outhowwa gotten that idea? “No. I took her captive."
Outhowwa considered this new twist, his lips pressed together in a hard line. He pointed at Charity. “Look how she holds to my captive."
Wicomechee swiveled his head to see her clinging to the Long Knife. Jealousy and annoyance assailed him. Outhowwa wouldn't tolerate such willfulness for an instant, never mind that she was young and beautiful. The mature warrior despised redheads. “Charity, take your hands from this man now."
She panted so hard she could scarcely speak, but did not peel back her fingers. “Wait—what will happen to Rob?"
Outhowwa rounded on her. “This is not for you to say. You do not interfere with his punishment."
Her pleading eyes passed between them. “Don't kill him."
"He is dead to you. You must learn respect,” Outhowwa growled, and raised his arm over her head once more.
She ducked with a shudder.
Wicomechee sprang forward and seized Outhowwa's wrist. “Let me discipline her."
"Your eyes hold softness for this woman,” he scorned.
Wicomechee locked him in an unyielding stare. He was equal to Outhowwa if it came to that, although he hoped it wouldn't. Nor did he know if any of the braves looking on in tight-lipped scrutiny would back him up.
"I will do as I must, Outhowwa."
He snorted at his reply, but made no move one way or the other.
"May I speak with her?” Wicomechee asked.
Outhowwa gave a short nod. Wicomechee dropped his gaze to the Long Knife lying face-down beside her. “Who is he?"
"Rob Buchanan,” Charity said shakily. “The youngest son of Captain Buchanan."
Waupee had spoken the militia leader's name. Wicomechee wondered if Charity were promised to this son she'd risked her life to defend. A fresh shaft of resentment pierced him as he addressed the exasperated chief. “Your captive is the son of the leader of the Long Knives."
Outhowwa waved Wicomechee on. “Speak more of him."
Wicomechee knelt beside Charity and met her tearful eyes with a stern look. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “Must you infuriate Outhowwa?"
"I was just trying to help Rob."
"You should trouble more about yourself."
"I'm sorry,” she offered, too little, too late.
He waved aside her reasoning. “Tell me of Rob Buchanan,” he said, hating the very name.
"Rob's father will do anything to recover him. He's the youngest son, the favorite, and the Buchanan's have more wealth than most."
"Is he an able hunter?"
"One of the best shots in the valley. Can you aid him?"
"Perhaps. Be still."
"But—"
Wicomechee shot her a hard glance. “Not one word."
Lips pursed, she nodded.
Finally. What a stubborn girl.
Wicomechee patted the Long Knife's shoulder and raised his voice. “Outhowwa, Captain Buchanan will pay you well for his son's return. Or, if you prefer, adopt him. Rob Buchanan is a skilled hunter. Think of the meat and skins he could provide your family. His death brings you nothing."
Never one to allow possible reward to slip through his grasp, Outhowwa considered Wicomechee's argument. “I will think on your words.” But it seemed Charity wasn't to be excused so easily. He regarded her with all the warmth of a baited bear. “Foolish woman. She flies without thought.” He shifted his shrewd gaze to Wicomechee. “She must learn."
Wicomechee didn't waver. “I will teach her,” he said, getting to his feet.
Challenge glinted in Outhowwa's eyes. He said nothing more and the tight circle of braves leaned in expectantly.
Now it was up to Wicomechee, and he'd rather do almost anything else than punish this most desirable of all women. She would surely despise him after this.
She lifted eyes awash with fear, like water churning before a storm. Wicomechee seized her arm and jerked her up. She cried out at the accompanying stab in her knee.
Hating himself nearly as much as she must, he shook his head at her and drew back his hand. How vulnerable her face looked...her soft woman's body.
Rob Buchanan roused from his stupor. “No! Don't harm her! Punish me!"
Noble words. Any more punishment and he would lie dead.
Charity fixed her beseeching gaze on Wicomechee. “Mechee—don't—"
Weak from his beating, the Long Knife thrashed vainly.
Despite the surly chief and intent onlookers, Wicomechee could not strike her. He dropped his hand. “I will discipline her, Outhowwa.” Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled her roughly away from the gathering. Once out of sight and sound of the others, he lifted her sobbing in his arms. She sagged in his hold as he bore her over the path.
Wicomechee cursed himself and the cruel fate that now likely awaited him and Charity.
Orange leaves brushed by Charity in a blur. Shaking, crying, she was scarcely aware of the direction Wicomechee carried her. Nor did she care, and only knew that saffron leaves blew overhead in the place where he laid her.
What would he do? Fearing abuse, she turned onto her chest and buried her face in her arms. The gurgle of water and birds calling through the trees mingled with her muffled weeping.
She sensed Wicomechee crouched beside her like a panther lying in wait. Still he said nothing. Did nothing. Yet he had promised the infuriated chief he would punish her.
They remained like this for long minutes, together, yet acutely apart. Gradually her sobs faded into an occasional sniffle and her rigid muscles relaxed. Little by little, she unwound from her tight ball, and dared to lift her head.
She wiped away the last tears from her nose on her sleeve. “You will not strike me?"
Wicomechee regarded her with immovable eyes. “Outhowwa would say I should."
Gone, the kindness and solace she'd known in the night, gone, the man in her dream. Shrinking from this intimidating warrior, she returned to the shelter of her arms. If she could, she would run from him. Better yet, fly.
Wicomechee clasped her shoulder with his strong hand. “Do not hide from me, Charity. We will speak."
She remained huddled on her chest, hugging the leaf-strewn earth. She gasped, feeling him tighten his hold—crying out as he suddenly forced her onto her back. Fresh alarm coursed through her. “Don't!"
He pinned her arms at her sides and bent over her. “Look at me."
He needn't have said it. His eyes compelled hers. Heart drumming, she stared up into his intent gaze.
"The Long Knife pleaded for you and cursed me. He risked death. This Rob Buchanan cares much for you?"
"Yes,” she gulped, “since childhood."
"You also risked death. Do you love him?"
Wicomechee's grim face blurred through her tears. “No. Uncle John and Aunt Mary want—wanted—me to wed Rob,” she stuttered, terrified he would let his hand fly.
"Do you desire this man for your husband?"
"I never did."
He seemed perplexed. “Yet you held to him like a lover."
"That was never my intention. ‘Tis only Christian to aid someone in distress."
"Christian?” he echoed, as though the word offended him. “You speak of your English God?"
She answered in bewilderment, never expecting to witness in this way. “God's son, Christ Jesus, desires mercy."
His lips curled. “Shawnee find little mercy from the English."
"I'm sure it must appear that way at times—"
"At times? Do you know what you speak? English ears do not hear the voice of the son of their God."
She was at a loss to reply and waited, trembling in his gri
p. Long moments passed under his scrutiny. What was his searching gaze telling him about her? Did she detect a slight softening in his face? His lips weren't drawn so severely.
"So, you possess mercy,” he said at last.
She blinked wet lashes. “Do you?"
He freed her arms and sat back on his heels. “For you, much."
It certainly hadn't seemed that way, but she seized the opportunity and reached an entreating hand to him. “Do not punish me harshly. I beg you."
Regret tinged his eyes as he clasped her outstretched fingers. “Charity, I do not want to."
"You don't?"
He shook his head. “Only to keep you from Outhowwa's wrath. You would not long survive his punishment."
She pulled her fingers away and pushed up on her elbows.
"Rob Buchanan would cut off his hand before ever using it against me."
The steely look returned to Wicomechee's face. “Then he would have no hand and you would lie dead by Outhowwa's."
"I thought you could keep me from harm."
"No. Only make the harm less. When we return, he will look to see if I spoke the truth."
Understanding dawned, and with it came an upswell of fear. “I do not appear punished."
Wicomechee shook his head.
A low wail escaped her. “Dear God. What will you do?"
The flint in his eyes softened. “Shhhh...I will not lash out at you. I despise to make my hand fly against you."
The strong emotion in his admission was beyond anything she'd ever expected. “Do you care for me as much as that?"
"Yes.” He took a swathe of linen from his pouch and handed it to her. “Now you will hate me as you promised."
She blotted her face with the cloth and considered. Slowly, she said, “I don't hate you."
His keen eyes followed her every move. “No?"
She'd never been observed so closely, as if he read her thoughts as well. She regarded him hesitantly. “If Outhowwa is still angry?"
"He can strike me."
She stared at him. “Why would you risk this?"
He smoothed her cheeks and cupped her face in his palm. How was it the hand that had jerked her up so rudely now offered a caress?
"You are paca, beautiful.” Closing his arms around her, he drew her gently against him. He combed his fingers through her hair. “Like fire, your hair, and your eyes...never have I seen such a color. You are the sun, the trees, come to life."
