Savage Destiny (The Hearts of Liberty Series, Book 1)

by Phoebe Conn

  Satisfied they had seen a fight worth watching, the spectators parted to allow Hunter to pass through their ranks. He helped Byron reach the creek where they had camped for the night. The Indian eased the battered Virginian to the ground, then unbuttoned and removed his shirt. He splashed water on Byron's face and chest, and rinsed his own blood from his opponent's hands.

  "Never fight a man when you're angry," Hunter advised. "You need a clear head to win, and you can't think when you're mad."

  Having expected to take a far worse beating, Byron was merely embarrassed rather than grateful for Hunter's attentions. Attempting to find a comfortable position, he laid back on the grass that flourished at the edge of the creek. He could breathe, but only in shallow gasps. "I hate you," he whispered.

  "Hate the French," Hunter replied, "and their Indian friends, who were responsible for Elliott's death. They are your only true enemies. I've done nothing to harm you." When Byron responded with a disgusted grunt, he continued to defend himself.

  "Your parents have turned their backs not only on me, but on Alanna, whose only crime is loving me. She expects better of you. She believes you'll take our side and defend us. What are you going to say to her when you get home? Are you going to be as mean-spirited as your parents, or will you be able to put your sorrow aside and see the truth?"

  Revolted by the way Hunter twisted damning facts to protest his innocence, Byron looked away. "If for no other reason, I hate you for keeping me out of the fight. You had no right to do that."

  Hunter shrugged. "Perhaps not, but I did it for your parents. You are all they have left, and I couldn't watch you throw your life away."

  Puzzled, Byron turned back toward him. "My parents hate you, but you wanted to spare them additional grief? I would have thought watching me die would have been the perfect revenge for you."

  Hunter pulled off his shirt and, again filling his hands from the creek, washed away the blood and dust that covered him. While not as sore as Byron, he had been hurt. One of Byron's wild kicks had struck his left thigh, and he feared it might have torn the still healing muscle.

  "The Iroquois used to fight amongst themselves. One tribe would raid another, and then that tribe would have to retaliate. We would have been destroyed as much by our lust for revenge against each other as by war with the Algonquin, had Deganawidah not had a vision of the union of the five tribes, and Hiawatha not convinced each tribe of the union's worth. The League has lasted nearly two hundred years, and the Iroquois are far more powerful than our enemies. If you would put aside your need for revenge, the Barclays would be far stronger for it."

  "What is left of the Barclays!"

  Hunter sighed unhappily. "You have fought me and lost. That should put an end to your need for revenge."

  "It doesn't." Sick to his stomach, Byron closed his eyes, effectively putting an end to their conversation, but Hunter did not leave him.

  The weary Indian leaned back against a nearby oak, reviewing their conversation and attempted to find another way to make peace with Byron. There was no way to bring Melissa and Elliott back to life, and any harm Byron succeeded in doing him would only hurt Alanna. No clever arguments occurred to him, but as he pondered Byron's senseless need to avenge what Hunter considered imagined wrongs, he gradually developed the uneasy feeling that he might be equally guilty of the same blind stupidity.

  Appalled, he remembered the pain reflected in Alanna's beautiful eyes, when he had repeatedly refused to raise Melissa's son. Why hadn't he realized that his contempt for Melissa had prompted him to extract revenge from the innocent child he should have welcomed with love? Hadn't Alanna been able to see what he was doing either? Shaken by his own obstinate refusal to see a truth that would have spared all three of them unspeakable anguish, he rested his elbows on his knees and tried to separate his feelings for Christian from those for Melissa.

  Did he have any right to expect forgiveness from Byron, if he could not forgive Melissa? he wondered. His head ached as much from the pain of his thoughts as from the lingering affects of the fight, and he sat quietly contemplating not only the past, but the future, until his stomach began to make rumbling complaints of emptiness. He got up, went to find what he could for supper, and brought back half for Byron.

  "You have to eat," he insisted. "I want us to be among the first to reach home."

  "Us?" Byron scoffed. "I can't stand the sight of you."

  "That's a shame, but perhaps you'll grow used to my company on the way."

  Byron rose up to spit in the grass; amused by his stubbornness, Hunter moved away to eat his supper. He was too lost in his own thoughts to worry about Byron for the moment, but he did glance his way to make certain he was eating. Satisfied that he was, Hunter decided they would spend the night right where they were.

  * * *

  Hunter awakened in the first eerie light of dawn, when a thick mist still clung to the banks of the creek. Byron was sound asleep nearby. Suddenly fully alert, Hunter sat up and glanced around the small glade where they had taken refuge. Not ten feet away, a wolf was drinking from the stream. It was not just any thirsty wolf either, it was a young male with a thick, glossy coat and bright, curious eyes. Hunter did not doubt for an instant that it was his wolf. The gentle lapping sounds it made while slurping up water had been what had awakened him.

  The wolf stared at Hunter with what the Indian swore was a glimmer of recognition. As if in a friendly salute, the handsome animal cocked his head to the side. He sat perfectly still for a long moment, then turned away, and vanished into the mist.

  "Wait, come back!" Hunter called. He lurched to his feet and took a step toward the stream, but the wolf was gone and did not return. He had been there though, and there had been nothing menacing about his fleeting presence. Hunter had longed for a sign, a promise of something good, and he was positive the wolf had just provided it. In accepting Christian for the dear child he was, as Alanna had, he was confident he had already changed their future for the better, but sighting the wolf convinced him that he was on the right path. He turned to find Byron watching him with an incredulous gaze.

  "Were you talking to a wolf?" Byron asked.

  Hunter laughed out loud. "Yes. You saw him, too?"

  "Biggest damn wolf I've ever seen. We're lucky he wasn't leading his whole pack."

  Hunter knelt down beside Byron. "He hunts alone. Like me. That's what my Indian name means: He Who Hunts Alone. I learned something from you yesterday, and he came to congratulate me."

  "You can communicate with wolves?"

  "Only with that one."

  Hunter got up and started to move away, but Byron called out to him. "What was it you learned?"

  "That a man bent on revenge hurts himself and those he loves far more than the one he hates. I didn't realize I was trying to punish Melissa by refusing to raise our son, until I tried to reason with you. Now I want to go home and be a husband to my wife and a father to my son. I can't take Elliott's place, but I can be a brother to you, if you'll let me."

  Byron shook his head. "Too much has happened for me to ever forgive you."

  "For what, for loving your sister? You loved her, too."

  "That was different."

  "I thought Melissa and I would be together always, and you cannot forgive me because she chose to wed another man? I have forgiven her."

  Byron stared up at Hunter, his expression devoid of understanding. "Would Melissa have forgiven you?"

  "There was nothing for her to forgive," Hunter assured him.

  "I told her love was no cause for shame, but clearly she was ashamed of loving me. Alanna isn't."

  This time Byron watched Hunter walk away without making any effort to stop him. He had despised him from the instant he had learned that the Indian had fathered Christian. It had been so easy to blame Hunter for seducing Melissa, and he blamed him still. It was too early to rise and he lay back, content to rest where he was for the time being.

  He missed Melissa terribl
y, but as he thought back to the first time Hunter had visited the plantation, he was shocked by the recollection of how quickly she had sidled up to the attractive brave. She had volunteered—too rapidly it seemed now—to accompany Hunter and Elliott when they went to speak with Alanna. The next day he and Elliott had left the Raleigh Tavern after only a brief stay, when he had begun to worry about the suitability of sending Melissa riding home with Hunter.

  "I should have known better!" he moaned. He could remember that outing so clearly. Melissa had flirted openly with Hunter all morning, and then her brothers had foolishly allowed her to ride home with him. She had been radiant at dinner, her cheeks aglow with color from the morning's ride, or so they had all thought. Elliott had had to go down to the dock to find Hunter, and the Indian had been as reserved during the meal as he was whenever the family was gathered together.

  Byron did not want to accept Hunter's version of his affair with Melissa, but his memories of that visit were still vivid. His sister had been her usual enticing self, while Hunter had shown a shyness neither he nor Elliott had expected from the confident scout. Had he been a challenge to Melissa? Had she viewed him as an exotic pet, and gotten more than she bargained for?

  The more he thought about their visit home before joining Washington's troops, the more probable Hunter's story became.

  He wished he could seek Elliott's counsel, but lacking that, he had Alanna's. She had been devoted to Melissa, and her marriage to Hunter proved she harbored no ill will where he was concerned.

  Byron propped himself on his elbow, and had to force back a nauseating wave of pain. It had been so easy to hate Hunter, and yet clearly Hunter did not hate him, for he was fully capable of giving him a beating that would have left him badly scarred and perhaps crippled for life. Savage or not, Hunter was a remarkable man, and when he returned with jerky and biscuits for their breakfast, Byron found it difficult to discuss what was on his mind. Instead, he ate what he could, slept a while longer, and then, with Hunter's help, managed to walk the few miles those straggling behind with the wounded made that day.

  It wasn't until Hunter had bid him good night the next evening, that he finally managed to speak what was on his mind. They were again in a secluded spot where their conversation would not be overheard. "I've been thinking," he began slowly. "Remembering. I'll need more time, but I've been considering what you've told me. I'm not saying that I believe it, but only that it's possible."

  Hunter eased himself down into the grass. "Thank you, but it's Alanna and my son I'm worried about. They're part of your family, but your parents have turned against them. That's an awful thing to do to someone as dear as Alanna, or to an innocent babe."

  That Hunter was more concerned about his wife and child than himself is what impressed Byron most. "I'll do what I can," he promised. "My father can be very stubborn, and my mother seldom crosses him, so it may take me years to affect a reconciliation, but I'll do my best. I owe you that much for saving my life."

  "You're no longer angry with me for that?"

  "I heard George Washington lost two mounts and had his clothes ripped by four bullets, without receiving a scratch. I'm not nearly that lucky. Maybe I would have survived without your damned interference, but most likely I would have died. Thank God that in all the smoke and confusion no one missed me. I'd surely have been charged with desertion, if they had."

  "No, I would have taken the blame for your absence," Hunter assured him, "and because I'm only a scout, not a soldier, they would have had no way to punish me. Besides, I didn't desert, I fought the whole time. It just wasn't out in the open as Braddock demanded."

  "That's why he's dead and you're alive."

  "Whatever the reason, I'm alive to return home, and I don't want you to hate me."

  Byron was silent for such a long time, Hunter thought he might have fallen asleep, but finally the Virginian spoke. "I'll always miss Melissa, and be sorry for the agonizing way she died, but I no longer hate you. But if you ever disappoint Alanna, you can expect to have to answer to me."

  Thinking that was as generous as Byron was likely to get, Hunter did not take offense at his threat. "I'm a very good husband," he assured him. "Alanna will never have any complaints."

  Considering his shy cousin, and a man he thought more than a little arrogant, Byron shook his head. "Lordy, what a pair you must be."

  Hunter smiled to himself. "Yes, we are."

  * * *

  Anxious to see his son when he reached Williamsburg, Hunter's first stop was at Charity Wade's. When he found the yard overgrown with weeds and the house vacant, he panicked. Leading Marshal, he hurried next door to ask where Charity had gone, but the residents were so alarmed by the sight of an Indian on the front porch, they refused to answer the door. Frustrated, he tried another house, and then another, until he found a soul brave enough to talk with him.

  "Charity moved away a couple of months ago," the old gentleman replied. "In June I think it was, but it might have been May. No, wait a minute, it was in May, early May. I remember because—"

  Hunter could not help interrupting rudely. "Please, do you know where she went?"

  "Over on Francis Street," the elderly man said. "Haven't been over there myself, so I can't tell you where, but I heard it was a nice house."

  "Thank you." Rather than chase up and down the length of Francis Street searching for his son, Hunter next tried Randolph's home.

  Mrs. Newcombe peered out the window, recognized Hunter, and opened the door. "Good afternoon, sir. Mr. O'Neil's still at his shop. Would you like to leave a message?"

  "No, I'm looking for my wife. Isn't she here?"

  "Oh, no, sir, she hasn't lived here in months. She and Mrs. Wade are sharing a place over on Francis Street."

  "Can you tell me where?"

  Mrs. Newcombe pursed her lips thoughtfully. "No, I've never been there myself. But wait a minute, Stanley must know. He's in the stable."

  Again eager for more information, Hunter rode Marshal around to the rear of the house. He called out Stanley's name, and he soon appeared.

  "Well, now, I'm real glad to see you. From what the Virginia Gazette printed about Braddock's campaign, we didn't know if any of you were alive."

  "A few of us are. Mrs. Newcombe said you could tell me where Alanna's living."

  Stanley nodded. "Sure can. It's over on Francis Street."

  Hunter was fast losing his patience. "Where on Francis Street?"

  "It's right toward the end, down by the Capitol. Pretty white house with blue shutters. You'll find it easy enough."

  Hunter turned Marshal toward the gate, urged the horse to a gallop, made his way to Francis Street, and raced to the end. He found a white house with blue shutters and, hoping it was the right one, he tied Marshal out front and knocked on the door. When Charity answered, Hunter put his finger to his lips.

  "Is Alanna here?" he whispered.

  "Yes, but there's no need to whisper," she replied. "She and Christian are out in the backyard. Here, come through the house."

  Hunter had rehearsed what he wanted to say the whole way home, but the instant he saw Alanna and Christian, he doubted he could utter a word, let alone a memorized speech. His son was toddling along beside Alanna, gripping her skirt for support, but walking just the same. Alanna was showing him the garden, bending and pointing as she called out the names of the vegetables they had planted. She hadn't noticed Hunter, but he had a clear view of her. After four months, her figure was as slim as when he had left her. He would have to try again to give her a child; eager to try, he broke into a wide grin.

  Taking care to avoid being seen, he approached his wife and child with a hunter's stealth, until he was close enough to scoop up the little boy and swing him high into the air. Thrilled by the unexpected ride, Christian squealed in delight, while Alanna whipped around to confront him.

  "Hunter!" she gasped.

  Hunter shifted Christian to the crook of his right arm, and hugged Alanna with h
is left. He kissed her soundly and laughed at her dismay. "I promised to come back to you. Why are you so surprised?"

  Alanna reached up to caress his cheek, satisfying herself that he was unchanged. "I'd almost forgotten how handsome you are."

  "Then I have returned just in time."

  "What about Byron? The Gazette had the most awful description of the battle, and I've been so terribly worried about you both;"

  "Byron is on his way out to the plantation. We're both safe," he told her, taking no credit for the excellence of Byron's health. Christian had begun to yank on his hair, and Hunter caught his tiny hand and placed a kiss in his palm. "He'll say only good things about us to your aunt and uncle, but he has scant hope that they'll ever want to see us."

  Understanding Byron's skepticism had good cause, Alanna continued to sweep Hunter with a hungry gaze. She had spent every minute he had been gone loving him, and yet fearing his return. "There's been a good deal of gossip. I was even referred to as Randolph's mistress for a while. He visits us every day, but it's Charity he comes to see, not me."

  "Really? Well, he was lonely, so a pretty woman with a houseful of children ought to be perfect for him."

  "She has only three children," Alanna reminded him. "That's not a houseful."

  Her expression was troubled, rather than filled with the joy Hunter had expected to see, and he gestured toward the grass. "Come sit down with me." He led the way, and set Christian on his feet before he chose a place to sit. The little boy grabbed the fringe on his shirt and made his way around him. "Is he this friendly with everyone?" Hunter asked.

  "Charity and her children, Randolph, you and me, we're the only people he knows, but he's not in the least bit bashful with us."

  Hunter tousled Christian's hair as he toddled by, and the little boy's giggle made him laugh. "He seems like a very happy child."