by Beth Trissel
Maybe they could hide there forever.
He leaped down from the stone. “Come."
A month ago she would have jumped as he'd done, even raced him to the tree. Not now. She hadn't the strength.
Sad knowing touched his eyes. “I will help you."
She reached for him and closed her arms around his neck. Sunlight streamed over them as he lifted her and stood with her in his embrace. His hungry lips returned to hers. If only she could melt into him and truly be one.
"Put the girl down and back away!” a man barked.
Charity's heart nearly stopped before a wild hammering set in.
Soldiers wearing the scarlet uniforms of British regulars and others dressed in the hunting shirts of frontiersmen burst through the trees. A clean-shaven young man with gold braid trimming his red coat led some two dozen men. “I am Captain Dawson acting on Colonel Bouquet's orders. Unhand the girl!"
Every muscle in Wicomechee was coiled, but his face revealed only cold rage. “Memequiluh,” he said, and stood her on her feet. "Te qui."
She understood his directive to run to the tree, but numb with dread she hesitated.
He gave her a shove.
Panic lent her the speed that weakness had taken and she flew toward the hemlock. She could soon lose herself beyond its branches.
"After her!” the officer ordered.
"Any man who gives chase, dies!” Wicomechee called in turn. “Will you fall first, captain?"
She knew what her husband threatened them with and what he sheltered behind. The large stone lay between her and the pursuing soldiers. But there were too many. An image flashed in her mind of him hurtling to the ground shot through the chest. Dear God—her dream.
"Don't fire, Mechee!” Spinning around, she raced back toward him.
"No, Red Bird."
"They'll kill you!” She ran to him in a burst of speed borne of sheer adrenalin.
Anguish filled his eyes. He lowered his musket and caught her to him. She held to him in horror as the men stalked nearer, their faces angry, barrels pointed at them.
"Step away, Miss,” the captain ordered.
"No. I want to stay with him."
"We have orders to return all captives."
"Your orders be damned and you with them!” Wicomechee shouted.
The musket barrels were only ten yards away. “Seize her! If this bastard resists, shoot him."
"Shoot us both and have done with your torment!” Charity flung back.
With the guttural groan of an injured wolf, Wicomechee pried her from him. “You will not die. Nor the child."
Tears blurred his precious face. “Don't fight them,” she pleaded. “Find some way to get me back."
He nodded.
Though she couldn't imagine how he'd recover her, she had no choice but to walk away, each hated step taking her toward the waiting captain. She stopped before the young officer and glared at him with streaming eyes. “Call my husband a bastard again, Captain, and by heaven you'll answer to me."
Astonishment displaced the annoyance in his arched gaze, and something else—admiration. “No, Ma'am. I won't."
"I'll say you won't, Captain Dawson! And any man who fires on that warrior will die by my hand,” a man warned.
Charity was too stunned to move. Beyond the captain, she saw a tall gentleman emerge through the trees.
He rounded on the officer. “You've made a mess of this."
"My apologies, Mister Ramsey."
The newcomer strode into full view and bore down on them. He wielded authority, yet he wasn't a soldier. His clothes befit a wealthy gentleman, from the brown tricorn hat trimmed in gold braid, to the brown wool coat with double capes extending over his broad shoulders. Fine breeches of the same hue hugged his long legs above black riding boots.
"I told you not to get ahead of me, Dawson. Look what you've done,” he scolded.
"This woman is a captive, sir."
"Have you forgotten the whole point of my coming?"
"No, sir. You seek to recover your son."
"Whom we have just learned has a fair wife with hair like fire. Her, perhaps?"
"That warrior—” Captain Dawson faltered. “Is your son?"
"What did you expect, a young man in evening dress? His mother was Shawnee, for God's sake."
This sudden turn of events nearly sent Charity toppling to the ground. As it was, she felt her knees giving way.
"Look to the lady, Captain!"
He sprang to her side, closing his arm around her middle. The gentleman swept through the parting soldiers. “You've frightened her nearly to death. Give her into my care."
Charity was promptly transferred to her new protector, who lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She stared up into a strong face that bore an undeniable resemblance to Wicomechee's. The red hair her husband had remembered so well was beginning to gray and worn tied back with a black ribbon.
"Don't let them take me away, sir,” she pleaded weakly.
His blue-gray eyes softened at her appeal. “Calm yourself, my dear. Everything will be all right.” Vexation charged his expression again as he returned his attention to the officer. “Go on, Dawson. See if you can keep out of trouble while I speak with this lady and my son."
"I dare not leave you alone, Mister Ramsey."
"I don't require your blasted protection!"
"The savage is armed, sir."
Mister Ramsey fixed the captain with a look reminiscent of Wicomechee's at his most provoked. “If anyone uses that unfortunate term in my presence again I will call that man out. Do I make myself clear?"
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Chapter Twenty-Two
Somewhere deep inside him, Wicomechee had known his father would come, though not when. Perhaps he'd inherited a bit of the sight. Whatever it was, this sixth sense hadn't prepared him for the churning emotion tearing through him. This was no time to lose his wits. He struggled to think as he stood staring at the man who now held Charity. Gone were the warrior clothes he remembered. Mister Ramsey, as Wicomechee had heard the newcomer called, was pure English.
"Leave us, Captain. I don't want to see your face again until I seek you out!” the forceful man ordered.
"Yes, sir. Just going.” Without any further protest, the detachment of soldiers rapidly retraced their steps.
Their deference was impressive and might prove useful, but it wasn't lost on Wicomechee that it was his father who'd brought them. If he had that power, he would shoot each one.
"Bloody nuisance, the lot of them,” Mister Ramsey muttered, but did not seem inclined to fire on them. He paused and spoke more gently to Charity. “Forgive me, dear lady. I forget myself. I'm Hugh Ramsey, and you are clearly overwrought. We best get some brandy into you. Steady your nerves.” Still holding her, he walked toward Wicomechee.
He sensed his father's hesitancy as he paused before him, likely an altogether unusual state for this commanding man.
"Hello, Kitate. Do you remember me?"
Wicomechee studied him narrowly. “I remember you, Notha. Not as you are now. Will you give me my wife?"
"Certainly, if you sit and speak with me,” the shrewd man bargained.
"Sit,” Wicomechee said tersely, and scaled the stone.
The man once known as Scootekitehi surrendered Charity and climbed beside him.
Wicomechee wrapped her in his arms. “Calm, sweet one. You shake so."
Hugh Ramsey reached into his coat and took out a silver flask. “I deeply regret her alarm. If that captain had done as I said, he wouldn't have arrived before me. I was delayed in the village greeting old friends."
"Shawnee friends?” Wicomechee emphasized.
"I still have them.” Mister Ramsey unscrewed the cap and extended the flask. “Give your wife a little brandy."
Wicomechee accepted his offering and held the flask to her lips. “Drink, Niwah."
She sipped while holding to him as though she feared being wr
enched from his grasp. “I have you now and will not let you go,” he assured her, desperately glad she was restored to his arms. His tender demeanor altered abruptly as he eyed his father. “Why did you bring soldiers to us, Notha?"
"Colonel Bouquet insisted I have an escort. I much preferred to come alone."
"You know this colonel?"
"He's a friend."
"With such a friend you have no need of enemies."
"Do not scorn the attachment. Without Colonel Bouquet's written permission, I could not enter Shawnee land to seek for you. He has vowed to keep all settlers, and anyone else lacking official approval, east of the Alleghenies."
"If the Colonel is successful in this, we will thank him,” Wicomechee conceded grudgingly. “Yet only for this. He would cut our hearts from us."
"I know. Still, Colonel Bouquet isn't a monster. He's an honorable man who simply cannot believe any captives would prefer to remain with their adopted families."
"Does he think if he allows them to choose they will stay with us only from fear?"
"I see her love for you."
Wicomechee gave Charity a final swallow and returned the flask. He scrutinized his father, a scrutiny Mister Ramsey fully returned. “So, Notha, you have come. Why now?"
"Years of war prevented me from returning sooner."
"Before that?"
"My father counseled me to leave you to Eyes of the Wolf and not to confuse you with a father who could not stay.” A sigh escaped him and yearning welled in his blue-gray eyes. “When I saw you last you were a small boy. Now you're a man, fine in every way. You're so like your mother, Kitate."
"I am called Wicomechee,” he reminded him coldly.
"I refuse to call you that. I had no wish to leave you."
"Yet you did."
"And lived to regret it, beyond all description. Only I haven't had the opportunity to tell you until now."
Wicomechee weighed his explanation.
"Will you hear me?” Mister Ramsey pressed, as if detecting a chink in his anger.
The force of his father's personality mingled with his own longing gave Wicomechee pause. “I will hear you."
"Thank you,” he said with an expression Wicomechee never expected, humble gratitude. “Those first months after leaving the village, I barely knew where I was, hardly ate or slept. In time my grief for Netathwe lessened and I grew stronger. Yet always I longed for the company of my small son."
Wicomechee voiced the question that had eaten at him. “Why could you not stay with us?"
"A visit I could bear, but to remain...memories of your mother would have been too painful. And I don't belong here. Though for her sake I tried to bridge the two worlds."
"You were often gone."
"Yes, and I missed you both terribly when I was."
"What were you doing?"
"Learning to run my father's estate. As his only son, I owed him that. There was much to learn and seemingly endless matters to see to. It's a large holding."
"I have no knowledge of what you speak,” he said shortly, not inclined to hear about the white world that had stolen his father from him.
"No. Though I did once try to explain."
"I remember."
"I think you remember quite a lot."
Wicomechee gave him a look. “Yes. Much."
"Hear me out. I decided long ago that your grandfather was wrong, that we should know each other. Please, Kitate, forgive me for not coming sooner. I beg you."
Plainly, this proud man wasn't above humbling himself, but Wicomechee wasn't easily dissuaded from his anger. Not after all these years. Saying nothing, he set his jaw.
Charity came to life. “For God's sake, Mechee. Forgive him."
"You do not understand, Red Bird."
Sparks fired in her green eyes. “I understand you have a father who loves you, sitting by your side. What do you think I'd give to see mine again?"
"Your father did not abandon you."
"He did, by dying in that battle."
"Now you are being foolish."
She cupped his face in her hands and looked him straight in his eyes. “No, I'm not. You are, and I won't have it."
His father followed her with keen interest and not a little bemusement. “What will you do to remedy matters?"
"Tell the truth, if he will not."
Wicomechee rebuked her. “This is not your affair."
Ignoring his resistance, she turned to his father. “Mechee loves you, sir. He said so."
A smile hovered at his lips. “Did he indeed?"
"Yes. Only he won't admit it.” She grasped Wicomechee by the shoulders as Waupee had done and tried to shake him. “Tell the truth, Mechee—"
His father chuckled. “She really is something, this Red Bird of yours."
"Is she not?” Wicomechee pulled her arms away and pinned them to her sides. “Stop. You tire yourself."
"I will not rest until you speak your heart."
She'd trapped him into confession. “It is true, Notha. I loved you much."
Tears swam in his father's eyes. “Perhaps you still do?"
"Perhaps."
The Englishman extended his hand.
Slowly, Wicomechee clasped it.
Exerting the power of his muscular frame, his father pulled him close and enfolded both him and Charity in an embrace. When it had lightened, equal moisture blurred Wicomechee's eyes.
"Thank you, sweet Red Bird, for pressing Kitate to this admission."
"You are very welcome, sir.” Her voice quavered.
"I know so little about you. What is your English name?"
"Charity Edmondson. The last name matters not. I'm without any living family."
"Then I will think on the first. It suits you well."
"Why is this?” Wicomechee asked.
"Charity means mercy which she clearly has in abundance."
A strange sensation came over him...another sort of knowing. “Why did you not tell me, Red Bird?"
"You never asked. Does it matter?"
"This is a sign, as is Notha's coming.” He scrutinized his father. “For you to see this in her is more reason why I must hear you and request your aid."
Notha seemed moved, as though he realized what it had cost him to make this admission. “You have all I can give."
Wicomechee kept his voice low. “How am I to escape the soldiers with my wife?"
"Even if I help you slip past them, where will you flee?"
"To the mountains until all the army has left our land."
"That won't be before spring. The Colonel intends to round up captives wintering with Shawnee families in hunting camps. Is Charity strong enough for the journey you propose?"
"Red Bird is weak from injury and ill with my child."
"Eyes of the Wolf says I carry a son,” Charity told him.
Mister Ramsey touched her cheek. “I'm delighted to think of having a grandson, and yet...” Gravity dimmed the anticipation in his face. “You put her at great risk, Kitate. A wintry trek into the mountains may further weaken her."
He wanted to pound the stone. “What am I to do? I will not let the soldiers take her."
His father said calmly, “Return with me. Both of you."
Wicomechee's mouth fell open. “Are you mad? I am not to flee from the English, but go to them?"
"Allow me to explain—"
Wicomechee shook his head. No explanation was possible.
His father gripped his shoulders, making far more of an impression than Charity had. “Do you wish for my fate, Kitate? A son without his mother. Unspeakable grief."
He flinched. “I prefer death to losing Red Bird."
"So did I. But like me you are strong. Death does not come for the wishing."
"Mechee, come what may, give me your word you will care for our son. Never leave this child,” Charity entreated.
Her plea seared him, and anguish welled in his father's eyes. Steeling himself, he said, “Tell me
your plan, Notha."
"Thank God. The aid I offer doesn't lie in the kind of escape you long for, but I can do much to help you. Journey with me to my estate and remain as long as you need. I can gain any necessary permission from Colonel Bouquet."
Wicomechee couldn't believe his ears. “Do I hear rightly? You would take a warrior to the English?"
"Are you not my blood and half English? I will take you under my protection."
"You can assure this?"
His father's eyes glinted dangerously. “Just let any man dare to threaten my son. He will swiftly come to regret it."
Wicomechee answered with a fleeting smile. “Still, you are a warrior, Notha."
"Always. Give us some precious time together, Kitate. We've been robbed of so much. Learn of this other world while your sweet wife grows strong."
Hope warmed Charity's eyes like the sun's bright rays. “You wish for this?” Wicomechee asked her.
"Yes. He offers us refuge. I must still undertake a journey but not such an arduous one—"
"Not nearly,” his father broke in eagerly. “We will go by horseback until the roads improve. At that point I'll hire a coach for Charity. I am a wealthy man, Kitate. She will lack for nothing and have the best of care."
He felt as if he were being sucked down into a black pit. “Yet to leave my people—even for a time.” His voice broke.
"You will learn much and might even discover some aspects of English life to your liking,” his father reasoned.
Pain beyond description engulfed him. “I am not English. Would you make me so?"
Charity grasped his hand. “Don't despair, Mechee. It's only for awhile."
They both waited, eyes pleading, for some concession from him. But Wicomechee's agony remained and he could not speak.
An expression of sad weariness lined his father's face. “Will you allow me to take Charity to preserve her life?"
The request gnawed at Wicomechee like ravenous rats, but he gave a nod.
Charity shuddered in his arms. “Please, sir. I can't go without Mechee."
He patted her shoulder. “It will be all right, Charity. I will care for you like my own daughter, and smuggle you back to him when conditions are safe."
"That will not be for months. I couldn't bear to be without him for so long."
