by Beth Trissel
"Have you a truth-bearer to carry your prayers?"
"I've never heard of this."
"When Shawnee pray, we burn tobacco, sacred to us. This carries our prayers to Manito. If we have none, we use another truth-bearer, the wind, fire, feathers of the Eagle."
"That makes no sense. Why not just pray?"
"How can you expect to be heard?” he asked in return.
"I just do. Will you insist that I believe as you?"
"No. Believe as you like."
She absorbed his acceptance with gratitude. This was more than anyone except Craig had allowed her. “Thank you."
"For this, you thank me?"
A blazing light streaked across the sky and captured her attention. “Look. A falling star. Quick—make a wish."
"You wish upon alagwa, the stars?"
He could hardly have sounded more incredulous if she'd declared that she could fly. “Craig said I might."
Closing her eyes, she offered a tentative but fervent wish that somehow, someway, she and this most unlikely of husbands would be happy together. It seemed impossible.
"For what did you wish?” he asked as she looked up.
"It won't come true if I tell. Did you make a wish?"
"No need. I have all I desire in you."
"Do you really wish for nothing more than me?"
"From you, I will have all I want. Look closely upon the road to heaven. See the small stars? This is where little ones wait to be born."
"Ours?” she blurted, evoking glances from curious onlookers. “Yours and mine?"
"Who else's? You will give me strong children of much beauty."
"I'm very afraid to."
"Charity, you told me you are alone, without family. I, too, have lost all of my blood, save for Nimesoomtha, my grandfather. Together, we will have much."
"Perhaps, if I survive."
"You are strong like the deer."
"And frightened like the rabbit. Chaka was right."
He chuckled. “Do not fear anymore this night. I will not take you to myself now,” he whispered.
She listened in an odd meld of relief and disappointment. When would he?
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Chapter Eleven
Gray, pre-dawn light filtered through the woods. The rich hues of autumn awaited the sun's golden touch to bring them to life. Her hand in Wicomechee's, his shirt beneath her cloak, Charity walked at his side, her troubled thoughts circling around the fact that, at least to his people, she was wed to a Shawnee warrior. And she'd given him her pledge before God. Her yearning for him clashed with everything she'd been taught and transcended all she knew. How could she reconcile herself to the bitter enmity between their people?
It seemed to her that truly loving anyone incurred a great deal of risk to one's heart. And if she were parted from him now, the memory of him would go with her all of her days...a painful ghost.
Wicomechee bent back the branch of the large sourwood and gestured ahead to where mist rose over the spring. Slowly, he released her fingers. “I will wait for you. Make haste."
She watched his bare back disappear into the leaves then knelt by the pool to drink and refresh herself. Only the clear whistle of a song sparrow broke the serenity. Her petticoats and bodice were draped over the spice bush where she'd left them and nearly invisible in the subdued light. Dew had saturated the cloth. Nothing in her wanted to feel that wetness against her skin. Leaving her clothes to the coming sun, she twisted off a fragrant twig from the bush and chewed the spicy bark as she walked back through the trees.
The clustered trunks gave way to grass and the grayness brightened in the clearing. Her shoes, stockings, and the edges of her cloak were soon soaked. Even at this hour, though, the balmy air felt more like August than October. She'd expected Wicomechee to wait nearby, but didn't see him.
There. He waved to her from the other side of the meadow, his muscular shoulders silvered in the light. An impulse to be near him sent her running in his direction.
He did the same. His long legs carried him toward her in smooth ground-covering strides, and the race was on to arrive at mid-field first. Milkweed pods released fluffy white seeds, like tiny sails, on the barely-there breeze. Just as they were about to come together, she skidded on the grass. Her feet slid from beneath her and she thudded onto her back. Her surprised gasp dissolved into muffled giggles.
Wicomechee put on a burst of speed and reached her in moments. Panting from laughter, as much as exertion, she smiled up at him. “Was that fast enough?"
He smiled back. “Like the wind. Yet you lie at my feet.” He pulled her up, and held her against him. “Ah, Red Bird. I never thought to hunt with one so fair."
"Or so clumsy. Craig never took me. He said I'd only be a nuisance."
"You are no nuisance.” Wicomechee pressed his lips over her cheek and lightly kissed her mouth, his first kiss since the evening she'd begged him to stop.
A potpourri of sensations, like contrasting scents, flowed through her as he lingered tenderly at her lips, releasing her with the same reluctant restraint he had before.
"Are you certain ‘tis only hunting you want me for?"
"Why do you ask this?” Humor tinged his voice.
He led her across the meadow and into the trees bordering it on the other side. They followed the path their party had taken yesterday to ascend this ridge.
"Is the hunting good back this way?"
"Very good,” he said.
The path dipped sharply and grew rough, like a dry creek bed. Grooves scarred the earth where the soil had been washed away by countless rains. Stones of all sizes littered the ruts. She stumbled on a loose stone, lurching forward. Only his grip kept her upright.
"Must I carry you, Red Bird?"
"No—I'm—"
She startled as he scooped her up and leapt across a wide furrow in the trail. His moccasins landed noiselessly in a patch of fern at the edge. Cradling her to him, he spun her around in a circle.
She clung to his neck as misty leaves whirled by. “Mechee!"
"Shhhh—you will frighten my game,” he chided, laughing under his breath.
"Behave yourself, then."
He stopped twirling and buried his face in her neck, eliciting exquisite tremors. “With you, I am always gentle."
"Yesterday you almost weren't,” she reminded him.
"You gave me much cause for anger."
"Am I truly forgiven?"
His warm lips hovered at her ear. “How can you not be?"
Her heart pounded like the little wren's she'd once held in her hand. “Will you put me down now?"
He set her upright in the fern. Squeezing her fingers, he sprang back onto the path and led the way while she followed more slowly down over the uneven ground. The trail leveled off a bit. The ruts smoothed out as waxy mountain laurel leaves closed in around them, blocking their view of the forest and preventing any route other than the close path.
After about twenty minutes of a brisk downhill trot, she saw the laurel thicket give way to a rocky outcropping scattered among the trees and a tangle of grapevines. He motioned to her and ducked behind the rocks.
She darted where he'd gone, but found no trace of him among the brown stones. “Mechee?"
"You seek me?” he asked quietly from behind her.
She spun around. “You move like a ghost."
"Do I feel like a spirit?” he whispered, and pulled her down into a leaf-strewn crevice just wide enough for two.
She pressed against his bare chest in a heady rush and felt his hard thighs beneath the breechclout. “Not at all."
He pointed through a gap in the rocks down to the shadowed hollow veiled in light haze below their vantage. “Peshikthe, the deer, feed there. Wabete, the elk, also."
The narrow valley was empty now, but an elk bellowed off in the hazy distance. Wicomechee lifted the beaded flap of his hunting pouch and took out a wooden whistle. “This will bring Brother
Elk.” Putting it to his lips, he blew in a skilled imitation of the elk's high-pitched bugle.
"You sound very like, but ‘tis quite a way to fire from here,” she whispered.
His musket lay on the leafy ground within arms-reach. “I do not miss."
"Truly you have amazing skill."
He slid the whistle back into his pouch and fixed his eyes on her. “Firing is not difficult. It is you who are difficult. I fear to let you from my sight."
She glimpsed the yearning in the depths of his dark gaze. “Do you truly care so very much for me?"
"What more must I do to prove my love? I cannot show you with words only."
"Words alone will not content me,” she admitted.
He pulled back to look fully into her eyes. “Do I dream?"
The silver light and solitude lent a sense of unreality to the moment. She slipped her fingers through the black hair falling across his shoulders. Wanting grew in her, though she couldn't have said for what, only more. “You are so handsome, Wyshetche, your face, your hair...all of you."
"Now I know I dream."
"Not unless we both do. Oh, I wish you were English,” she sighed.
"That is not my wish."
She nuzzled her cheek against the smooth skin in the hollow of his cheek. “Everything would be so much simpler."
"Charity, forget I am a warrior, think only that I am your husband, friend. Am I not also this?"
"You are, but—"
He touched his fingers to his lips. “Do not speak. Show me your love."
"Me? I haven't your skill."
"Try. You are doing very well."
Streaks of pale rose and gold tinged the eastern sky as she inched her face nearer to his, until her mouth was only a breath away from his lips. Like a hunter mindful of frightening a deer, he held himself still, waiting.
"Won't you help me, Mechee?"
"Come to me first."
Shutting her eyes, she closed the remaining distance and slowly pressed her uncertain lips to his welcoming mouth.
"You are all that is sweet,” he said huskily, deepening their kiss and enveloping her in his arms.
Desire flared up in her and she felt as if she were melting into him. “What about your elk?"
"What elk?” he asked, his breath warming her cheek.
"The one you would shoot."
"Later."
Reclaiming her lips, he drew her down with him onto the leaves. The stone walls of their hideaway left little room to move. He lay on his side and she on hers, pressed to his chest, her heartbeat drumming in her ears. A mockingbird let fly its first song of the morning and squirrels chattered. The forest was coming to life, and so was she.
"Let me make you my wife.” he invited. “Completely."
Every shivery part of her wanted him, but an inner voice urged caution. “Will it hurt?"
"Perhaps a little."
"How much is a little?"
"Charity, I heard you tell NiSawsawh you trust me."
"I do."
"Then let me love you."
She wanted to, oh how she did. She craved his devotion, affection, his all...even more than he'd felt for Mequana, his late wife.
A horse whinnied in the hollow below, shattering their dreamy idyll. Wicomechee clapped his hand over her mouth and sat upright to peer through the stones. His rigid back told her what she already knew—the militia had come.
Still covering her mouth, Wicomechee returned his scrutiny to Charity. In her widened eyes he saw fear, also devotion, but what was the depth of her loyalty? He couldn't make her slip away with him. If she resisted, any thrashing or muffled outcry might alert the horsemen to their presence.
"Come with me?” he mouthed.
She nodded without a waver.
Despite the imminent danger, he grinned as he grabbed up his musket. Keeping low, he stole from the stones and headed up the trail. A glance over his shoulder revealed her creeping close to the ground just behind him.
He straightened when they reached the laurel thicket. Musket in hand, he sped away, alert to her quiet presence. She ran with the speed he'd admired and kept pace with his long-legged strides. The laurel swished past in a green blur as they climbed higher up the ridge. The rutted ground they'd crossed before came into view. Here she might stumble. He grasped her arm with his free hand and they leapt over the washed out grooves together.
Again he took the lead and they raced through dew-beaded leaves sparkling where golden shafts streamed though the branches. They burst into the clearing without slowing.
"How many men?” she gasped out.
"More than twenty. Well-armed."
On they ran back across the meadow. She panted behind him, but pushed on through the trees toward camp. They rushed in among the men.
"Long Knives,” Wicomechee hissed.
Word of the militia's approach flashed through the band. Warriors prone in bedrolls were on their feet, snatching up weapons, blankets, pots, anything of value.
Wicomechee stopped and clasped Charity to him. Her chest heaved against the rise and fall of his. “You flew like a bird,” he praised her.
She looked up at him, pride warming her eyes, but only for an instant. “What will happen?"
"We pull back. And watch."
The hour Charity had feared was at hand. The militia would be ambushed. Still winded, she gulped out, “Mechee—please."
Sympathy touched his eyes like momentary sunshine, but steely resolve lay behind it. “Shhhh. I will do as I must. Wait here."
He let go of her and ran to Outhowwa. Their heads bent together in rapid conversation while the rest of the party disappeared into the cover of pines and hemlocks. Chaka dragged Rob Buchanan off. The cloth tied across Rob's mouth would prevent him from crying any warning to his father.
Muga whisked the sleeping children up into his arms, blankets and all, the dog at his heels. “Wicomechee."
Outhowwa and Wicomechee glanced around at his low summons. Muga nodded at Emma, wrapped in a blue blanket, writhing and moaning beside the dying embers of the campfire.
Charity rushed to her cousin. “Emma—the militia's come. We must away."
Emma lifted frightened gray eyes and clutched at her swollen abdomen. “I can't. The baby's coming."
Charity nearly staggered back. “Does Colin realize?"
"No. The pains were mild in the night, so I didn't wake him—” she caught her breath. “I was dozing when he left to tend the horses. My water broke. Pains are fast—hard now."
The news struck Charity like a blow to the head and she dropped onto her knees. “You'll be all right."
Emma closed icy fingers over her hand. “Stay with me."
Wicomechee ran to them. He took in the situation at a glance. “Her little one's coming."
Charity looked up at him in desperation. “Do you know what to do for her?"
He gave a nod and bent to slide his arms beneath Emma. She cried out as he lifted her, twisting with the onset of another contraction. He lowered her gently to the ground.
"I dare not take her. Her cries will draw the Long Knives."
The weight of realization came, and with it a lump in Charity's throat. “I can't leave her, Mechee. The men will force me from you."
He set his jaw. “Never."
As fraught with anxiety as she was, she hated to think of his deadly skill being directed at Captain Buchanan and the others. “Go, then. Before they arrive."
"Colin!” Emma's ragged shout tore across the empty camp.
"Do not fear. I will find my brother.” Wicomechee slipped his fingers across Charity's cheek in a parting caress. “Do not forget. You are mine now, Red Bird."
Tears blurred her sight of him vanishing into the trees. How could she bear it if their time together was at an end?
There was no opportunity to dwell on her troubles, though. Emma needed her. Charity had witnessed a birth once. The details were sketchy in her memory, but she hadn't forgotten the s
creams. What had Mrs. Buchanan done?
She had a vague recollection of a tea brewed from the roots of slippery elm given to the mother, and its sap used to ease the birth. There were no elm trees at hand, no pot, nor any fresh water or cloth to sponge Emma. The blanket beneath her was soiled with birth water, as were her skirts. How was Charity to find dry linens, fetch water and medicinal herbs, let alone tend to the birth, ignorant and unaided?
She winced as Emma's nails dug into her palm. Sharp cries punctuated her moans and she rolled from side to side.
"God help me. I didn't think it would be this bad."
"You'll be all right,” Charity repeated over and over without any real sense of assurance.
At last Emma relaxed her fierce hold. But she'd scarcely drawn breath before she tossed again in the grips of another spasm. “I'm gonna die!"
"No. You'll be fine.” Charity shakily smoothed the damp curls from Emma's forehead. “'Tis easing now. Try to rest between pains."
"I can't. There's so little time."
"Calm down, dearest. Please."
"I want Mama. I can't do this without Mama."
"You can.” Charity heaved a grateful sigh at the sight of Colin shooting out behind the nearest hemlock."
"Sorry I'm late. We were moving the horses.” He crouched over Emma and tenderly gathered her against him. “Poor darling. I thought you were with Muga."
"I was afraid you wouldn't come."
"Promised you I'd be here, didn't I?” He eased her back down to the blanket and gripped her fingers.
For a moment Emma was calmer. Then another onslaught seized her and she loosed a piercing cry. “Colin!"
"I'm here, Sweetheart. Hold on."
She thrashed like an animal trying to escape a trap. “Hurts—it hurts.” Tears spilled down her flushed cheeks, leaving shining trails. “How long until the baby's born?"
Colin glanced at Charity, and she could almost see him thinking this wasn't anything like delivering a foal. But he kept any doubts to himself. “Anytime now, I'm sure."
She thumped the back of her head on the ground as if trying to knock herself out. “Too hard. Can't wait."
Neither could Charity. “Shall I see if I can fetch any supplies for her? Maybe I can find Mechee. Ask him what—"
