by Jamie Carie
“I shan’t be a woodsman, mother,” Isabelle corrected in annoyance. “I will be a grande dame in New Orleans and wear beautiful clothes and live in a fine house by the river with my handsome Spanish husband.”
Her mother laughed and stroked Isabelle’s cheek, a softness in her eyes that now brought a lump of emotion to Isabelle’s throat. “And will the grande dame trade her long rifle for a guitare and pluck away at the strings, entertaining your many guests?”
Isabelle grinned. “Non, Ma Mère. This grande dame will fence with her guests in the morning, hunt with them in the afternoon, and throw the most outrageous balls in the evening.”
“Oh, Isabelle, you are your father’s daughter.”
“And Julian? Is he more like you?”
“I think he has some of both sides in him. My mother is a wonderful artist, but your father is a poet.” Hope shrugged. “I just hope he can keep up with you on the journey.”
“I was surprised you would let him go.”
The worried look increased in her mother’s eyes, but she nodded firmly. “Yes, I surprised myself with that decision. But it will be good for him.”
Her mother trusted Isabelle to watch over Julian, which was why she had been able to relinquish him to the supposed dangers of such a journey. But this—this was real danger. And Isabelle was suddenly wondering whether the task was beyond her capability.
Quiet Fox was motioning them forward. They moved toward him, Isabelle intent on being as silent as any Indian she had ever met.
“Nous continueraient à se déplacer,” he whispered when they arrived at his side. They would keep moving.
“Have you seen nothing? Heard nothing?” Isabelle insisted.
“Non. We walk, but go around.” He motioned with his finger, around the clearing.
Isabelle nodded.
Quiet Fox moved out of the thicket, Isabelle and then Julian following close behind.
They were all tired, having hiked for two days in mud and muck with the heat and mosquitoes. They were tired enough that the marshy forest floor was looking as inviting as a featherbed, except now they were fueled with the inexplicable desire to put as much distance between them and this area as they could. They just didn’t know why.
* * *
HEAT LIGHTNING PULSED bright behind dark, pregnant clouds while the air settled heavy and thick in Samuel’s lungs. It was late afternoon and hot for a June day, leaving sweat marks on Samuel’s white, linsey-woolsey shirt. He quickened his pace, making for a supposed farmhouse that one of the hunters they had captured last week told him about, just three miles from Kaskaskia, their first target.
A little later, hearing the distant rumble of thunder, his gaze swept the green tinged sky. No doubt about it—a thunderstorm was coming. He was walking in an open place, between one dark line of trees and another, scouting ahead of the army, per Clark’s orders. He knew he should take cover, find shelter for the duration of the storm, but he wanted to reach the farmhouse on this side of the Kaskaskia River as soon as possible. It could be an invaluable place from which to launch their attack and set up Clark’s field headquarters. And it was up to him to find it.
With renewed energy that came from long experience of trusting his instincts, he lengthened his stride and picked up his pace. The wind kicked up and began to howl as a sudden downpour beat on Samuel’s head. He stopped, glad for the relief from the intense heat. Lifting his face, he let the rain run down his head and shoulders, sweet tasting and clean. He set his rifle aside and stretched out his arms, letting the shower soak through his shirt, sticking to his chest and back, taking with it some of the sweat and grime of the last few miles.
As suddenly as it had started, the rain changed form, from a pleasant shower to cold, tiny, needle-sharp shards. His hair blew into his face, and he turned to face the gusting wind. A jagged streak of lightning cut through the sky. Thunder rolled close by, chasing the lightning’s tail and announcing its proximity.
“Aaaagggghhhh!”
Samuel turned as a scream pierced the wet air. He changed directions, running toward the sound, then sank into the cover of the brush, creeping slowly forward, feeling the deep rumble of thunder echo inside his chest. He inched his way deeper into the wood. There, in the distance, he could just make out the dark outline of a smoldering tree. The lightning had been close. The curling smoke above the sycamore told him it must have caught some of the branches on fire but was quickly extinguished by the rain. As he inched closer, he began to make out excited voices. He stopped and listened, sure they hadn’t heard him.
Leaning to see past a thorny bush, he heard the voice of a woman and the lower tones of men—two of them, he thought—but he couldn’t make out their faces in the dim light. Creeping closer, he strained to hear what they were saying.
“That was close! Mon Dieu, Julian, did you see it?” A woman asked.
“Yes, of course I saw it. But must you scream? You fear so little, why must you fear thunderstorms so?” The man sounded irritated, and Samuel found himself grinning.
Another flash of lightning lit up the area, giving Samuel enough light to see three forms under low, leafy branches. An Indian stood off at a distance watching the sky, while a woman stood at the side of the other man, their backs hugging a short, fat tree. Moving closer still, he waited for more clues as to their identity before revealing himself. They might never be so honest as when being unknowingly watched.
“I’m not afraid,” she protested, “just startled is all. Why must you always exaggerate, Julian?”
The man called Julian huffed. “You were in mother’s bed, hiding under the covers during the last storm. I saw you.”
“Spying were you? I might have known. And I wasn’t hiding, I was … comforting mother. She was alone again; the storms bother her.”
“Yes, of course. It is mother who is afraid of thunder and lightning. Pray, forgive me, I should have known better.”
Samuel nearly chuckled aloud. He had enough siblings of his own to recognize this squabble.
The Indian spoke. “Enough.” He said it with quiet authority, and they both became silent until all Samuel could hear was the pelting of rain on leaves. The storm was diminishing, passing over like a great, dark bird.
A soft voice broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Julian. I am a little afraid of storms. I have never been cornered under a tree by lightning, at any rate.” There was a smile in her voice that warmed it.
“Yes, well, neither of us has been nearly struck by lightning. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as well. We were lucky, eh, Quiet Fox?”
The Indian grunted.
Samuel squatted in the brush, letting the rain drip from the brim of his hat onto his back. He supposed he should make his presence known, but he didn’t want to get shot at. The Indian was alert and ready with his long rifle. Maybe he could circle around and come up from behind them. The rain would make enough noise to cover him. It was a better plan than just stepping out of the trees into the middle of an armed party.
He stood slightly and backed his way into a clear section of the forest floor. It didn’t take long to silently tread around the threesome. When he came to the tree where the two were standing, he found that Julian had left his post beside the girl and had joined the Indian looking at the clouds. The girl—woman, he corrected himself, now seeing her shapely silhouette clearly against the tree trunk—was alone and digging through her pack. He inched forward, hoping to glimpse her face in the light of the blue-green sky that was growing brighter as the storm moved to the east.
A sudden gust of wind moved the branches overhead, letting a shaft of light fall to the wet ground. The woman looked up, her face wet and beautiful in the strange light. Then, for no reason he could imagine, she suddenly turned and looked straight into his eyes.
She yelled again—not with fear this time but with challenge.
Suddenly, shockingly, he found himself looking down the barrel of her long rifle. Where did that come from?<
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“Come out, you skulking scourge,” the hellion shouted at him.
Slowly, with his hands raised in surrender, Samuel stepped out of the brush to find two more barrels pointing at him from either side. If one of them fired, they would shoot his head clean off.
Samuel checked his irritation and controlled his facial expression. Carefully calm, he said, “I was walking by …” He looked into Isabelle’s eyes, hardly believing this fierce creature with her wild, dark hair, long and swirling provocatively around her skirts, was the one he had just heard conversing with her brother. “I heard your cry—the lightning, I supposed—and came to investigate.”
Isabelle eyed him like he had never been looked at by a woman before. He found himself both repelled and fascinated. A sudden image of her fierce and in his bed flashed through his mind, leaving him feeling as if a fog had invaded his brain, placing him under some spell. Worse still, he didn’t know what to do next. Frustrated, he shook his head to clear it. Such things never happened to him.
“Come closer.”
Was her voice huskier? Was she weaving a magic he was hopeless to resist? It made him angry and determined—to do what, he didn’t know—but he found himself obeying, walking slowly up to her.
* * *
ISABELLE TOOK A deep breath as the man walked toward her. An odd sense of familiarity slammed through her as he moved out of the shadows. It was as though he was walking out of the pages of history. Yes, that was it, he was like a knight of old, or what she had always imagined one would be, except he was clothed in frontiersman’s garb. A poem she had memorized flashed through her mind as she stared at him, unable to look away. She recalled the lines, speaking them just under her breath in smiling admiration.
He sees his future
stretched before him,
cold as steel.
Sleepless, lonely
await the kill.
Going for to find the damsel,
dragon-slayer, crusade-warrior.
No choice of mine,
knight in shining armor
weighted heavy, silver-shine.
Tall and broad, he blocks the sun,
man of honor,
chivalrous Knight.
Great men tremble in his glory,
pay him homage, dread his plight.
Courtly manners, noble talk.
Not a prancing peacock, he.
His word of honor, binding truth
the truth of chivalry.
“Are you mumbling, miss?”
Surfacing back to the real world, where this man could be a threat, Isabelle scowled at him. “Where are you heading?” she demanded instead of answering, rifle trained on his heart.
Samuel held out his hands. “I’d be happy to oblige your questions, miss, but could we dispense with the weaponry? I’m not generally given to harming women.” He looked questioningly at the Indian, who nodded his agreement. Julian and Quiet Fox lowered their weapons but kept them easy and ready at their sides.
Isabelle kept the weapon trained at him in silent challenge. For a long, quiet moment, they just stared at one another. Finally she shrugged one shoulder and lowered her weapon. Then she laughed. “But you’d harm a man, I dare say.” She stared at him, her chin poking out defiantly as she brazenly teased in a low voice, “You have harmed more than few men, I would guess.”
He only stared back. This man would not be the easy conquest of a few batted eyelashes. Here was someone with more substance. How much more was still to be discovered, causing a thrill to rise inside of Isabelle at the thought of it.
He took a step closer to her. It was as if they were alone and neither of them could tear their eyes off the other long enough to see the reactions of those with them.
In a deep voice he responded to her needling. “Stories that would curl your toes, miss. Maybe you will be able to coax them from me … someday.”
A slow smile spread across her face and coursed all the way through her body. “Perhaps our acquaintance will lend itself to such discourse, sir. Perhaps not.”
Before he had time to respond, Julian interrupted their banter. “Isabelle, you have only just met the man.” Stretching out his hand toward Samuel, he said, “Julian Renoir. We travel west from Vincennes to Kaskaskia on a mission of old books. Please excuse my sister’s brazen manners. She is spoiled, I’m afraid. And you, sir?”
“Samuel Holt. Traveling to Kaskaskia also.”
He shook hands with her brother, who was looking at the big man with the wide-eyed beginnings of hero worship. When Mr. Holt turned toward Quiet Fox, he paused. Isabelle looked back and forth between them. Their guide had gone very still and did not look Mr. Holt in the eyes. Did they know each other? Samuel seemed to recover first and turned toward her expectantly, as if waiting for her to explain her mystery further.
Isabelle had no such intentions. Let him wonder … and wait. But she relented enough to give up her name. Reaching for his hand as her brother had, she said, “Isabelle Renoir.”
She found herself holding her breath as he reached out toward her. His handshake was firm, his grasp wrapping warmly around hers, making her feel small and trapped. She let go, wanting to break the contact, and stepped back from him. “If you are heading to Kaskaskia, then we should travel together,” she said despite her misgivings.
Samuel seemed to consider her words, then replied in a voice so deep she felt it more than heard it. “Yes.” He nodded. “I think perhaps we should.”
4
In the aftermath of the storm, the air was mercifully cooler, the light kind and soft with the promise of summer’s twilight. The four fell into line—Samuel leading, the Renoirs in the middle, and Quiet Fox, a brooding frown in his eyes and a tight grip on his rifle, taking up the rear. Julian trailed behind Samuel’s long-legged stride, matching it the best he could with shorter legs and untried lungs, the combination of which quickly put an end to the questions he had attempted to ask Samuel when they started out. It was soon clear to all of them that Samuel moved faster and more efficiently than even Quiet Fox, who seemed to be stumbling along behind them.
Isabelle studied Samuel Holt with growing interest. He was dressed in the lean manner of the frontiersman, a loose-sleeved, linsey-woolsey shirt hanging with effortless grace from his broad shoulders. A slim cord of leather around his neck disappeared beneath the open collar of his shirt, hiding whatever hung on the end. Honey-colored buckskin leggings clung to his thighs and blended into buckskin boots, like long moccasins that graced his feet and calves. Weapons and ammunition hung everywhere on his person. A long, wicked-looking knife was tied down to his right thigh; another smaller one on his right calf was attached by a scarlet ribbon. A tomahawk was slung from his belt, which also held a water cask. To complete the picture was the Kentucky long rifle grasped like an extension of his right hand and appearing to weigh no more than the powder horn slung across his chest which hung to one side just above the shot pouch.
She couldn’t pull her gaze from the way his body moved over the land, supple muscle climbing, striding, vigilant and protecting, pushing through the dense marshland in front of them, showing the way. But there was more to this man—some indescribable quality of strength that, for the first time Isabelle could ever remember, made her see him as more than a match for her own abilities. She was shocked by the thought, but instead of resenting him for it, instead of wanting to prove herself against him like any other man of strength she had met in the past, she wanted to trust in it, simply to rest in the knowledge that he went before. She found it … oddly comforting.
She smiled a little, her breath measured to match her footsteps, pacing her strength for this long endurance race, wanting to impress Mr. Holt. But she also knew that the moment she said she needed a rest, he would stop.
As they walked, every so often Samuel turned his head as if to judge how his traveling companions were keeping up, and at times his gaze would meet hers. She could sense in his eyes the same feelings she was e
xperiencing, the interest and admiration. But something else lay deeper in his gaze—a disquiet, an old wound. Then he would turn from her and face the wilderness again and a danger known.
Just as darkness was settling over them they stopped. With trembling in her legs and a great sigh of relief, she sank down against the smooth, white bark of a sycamore tree. Samuel had pushed them until they found this small circular clearing and a wide stream to refresh them a short distance away.
Isabelle closed her eyes, breathed deeply of the moss-moist air, and allowed her thoughts to wander randomly over the events of the day. She drifted off, the feel of fringed buckskin almost real against her hand. The next thing she knew, Julian was waving a piece of jerked beef beneath her nose and saying in a singsong voice, “Wake up, sleeping beauty. ’Tis time to cook for us.”
Isabelle slapped away his hand and the awful smelling meat, but a smile hovered around the corners of her lips. “In truth you are a better cook than I am, and you know it, Julian. Let me rest.” But she opened her eyes a crack and studied the activities of the others. Samuel was building what looked to be a lean-to out of thin branches, some from the ground, some recently cut from surrounding birches and hickory trees, the leaf-filled limbs of which would create a break against the night air. Quiet Fox had still not returned from the stream, but Isabelle was used to his sudden disappearances and thought little of it. Someone had set up a trivet over a small cooking fire, and suddenly eager for some honey-sweetened tea and a hunk of crusty bread, Isabelle rose and dusted off her skirts.
Soon the three of them sat around the fire, eating the mostly cold supper, passing around a loaf of bread, some jerked meat, and chewing contentedly. Isabelle’s tea was finally ready, and as they only had two cups between them, she offered hers to Samuel.
Samuel smiled up at her as she held out the tin cup. “There’s plenty of fresh water at the stream. You keep it.” He patted his water canteen. “I need to fill up anyway.”
