“Star Girl baby,” Jamie said. “Fire Talon’s son, called Falcon, my friend.”
“Yes, he is your friend,” Elizabeth agreed. “Falcon is eleven,” she explained to Hunt. “Jamie thinks the sun rises and sets on his every word.”
“Falcon friend,” Jamie insisted. Elizabeth pointed to the door. When the boy started for the entranceway, Badger got up and ambled after him.
“What’s this?” Hunt grumbled. “Has he stolen my dog as well?”
Jamie laughed. “Come, Badger. Come.”
“Among the Seneca, one who saves a life becomes responsible for it,” Elizabeth said. Her green eyes shimmered with reflected firelight as she turned her warm smile on him. “You risked your life to save Jamie’s. He—and I—owe you a debt we’ll never be able to repay.”
Hunt shook his head. “There’s no need to talk of debts between us. Badger’s more to thank than me. Jamie swam like a fish, and Badger was there for him to hang on to when the cold got to him.”
“You make brave,” the boy admitted reluctantly. “You shot, still swim. I no can swim more. Cold water. Badger save, Hunter save, too. You brave for Shawnee. Seneca braver, but you brave, me guest.”
“You guess,” Elizabeth corrected.
Hunter looked into the boy’s eyes. “Jumping out in the river was a foolhardy thing to do,” he said. “You’re brave, Jamie. You just have to learn to think before you act.”
The boy chewed on his bottom lip. “Me see fire of camp,” he said. “Think Seneca be there.” He grinned. “Me right. Am Seneca fire. Am Father.” Jamie tapped his chest with his fist.
“What does he mean?” Hunt asked Elizabeth.
She looked amused. “It means that when you shouted that you were Yellow Drum, that wasn’t the best answer.”
“My father shoot,” Jamie boasted. “Come in canoe get me back.”
Hunt rubbed his forehead. “Yellow Drum?”
Jamie giggled. “You shout you Yellow Drum. My father Yellow Drum. He mad, shoot at you.”
“Shot at me? Shot me, I’d guess. But someone’s been taking care of me,” Hunt said carefully, as though walking on bird eggs. This talk of responsibility made him giddy. He stumbled for the right words and found himself breathless.
He couldn’t keep his gaze off Elizabeth. She looked like a vision in a simple doeskin shift and fringed leggings. Gone were the men’s clothes; in their place were the beautiful, beaded garments of a Shawnee woman. No, he decided, it wasn’t the tunic that made her look so lovely; it was the happiness that radiated from her face.
He liked seeing her here before a fire in this intimate family setting. He even liked hearing her fuss at the boy for throwing his clothes on the floor; it reminded him of his sister and the feeling of family.
“Next time you meet Seneca, you no say you Yellow Drum,” Jamie advised. “Maybe Father no shoot you.”
“Out.” Elizabeth pointed to the door. The boy and his tail-wagging animal left the wigwam. Elizabeth secured the heavy fur covering.
“No need to do that,” Hunt said. “I need to go out.”
She picked up a clay container and tried to hand it to him. “You’re too weak to walk, Hunt,” she said. “It’s cold out. Be reasonable. I’ll turn my back if you’re modest.”
His cheeks burned. “You’ve been doing ... that for me?”
“Someone had to.” She laid her hand on his arm. “You nearly died. You’d been shot twice, hit in the head—even if the bullet just grazed your thick skull, and you nearly drowned. You were hardly in any—”
“How long ago?”
“Three ... no, almost four weeks ago.”
“Where are we?”
“Fire Talon’s village. He didn’t want to take you back where we assembled the raiding party. He didn’t want to risk bringing the Iroquois wrath down on them. We’re somewhere near the Ohio. You’ve been out of your mind with fever.”
“I remember being in the river and a boat overturning—not much after that.”
“The Shawnee sunk one of the Seneca canoes. We had to leave you in the water, but I made them go back and look for you. They found you wandering in the woods near the river.”
“You made them?”
She smiled. “I convinced them that it was the honorable thing to do, after you’d shown such courage.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “You did save Jamie,” she said softly. “I’ll never forget it. Never.”
Hunt grimaced. “I can’t believe I was so stupid as to tell Yellow Drum that I was—”
She laughed. “How could you know? How could any of us know he would be there hunting deer and bear? They could have been hunting anywhere within a hundred miles.”
“And he didn’t follow?”
“I don’t think he realized Jamie was there. He only guessed that strangers were on the river. If he’d known about the children, the devil himself wouldn’t have kept him from pursuing us.”
“The Seneca don’t believe in the devil,” he reminded her.
“Whirlwind, then. He’s half human, half spirit, and mean as the devil.” The corners of her lips tilted up in a teasing smile. “You look like a supernatural being yourself with all that black hair on your face.”
“You might have shaved me while you were doing all that nursing.”
She smoothed away an unruly lock of hair, and her eyes twinkled. “I’ve never shaved a man. I wouldn’t know how to begin. Yellow Drum used to pluck his chin hairs with a clamshell. I could do that if you like.”
Hunt scratched the right side of his beard. “I don’t think so. I’ll shave it myself, if you can find a knife with a decent blade.”
“I think I can. You lost yours in the river.” She chuckled again.
“I’m glad you find my condition so amusing.”
“It’s just that ...” She took a breath and tried to talk without dissolving into laughter. “It’s just that I was so afraid you’d die that I never took time to really think about how different you looked with a beard.” A slight giggle slipped out. “The Seneca make masks of corn husks and animal hair. They represent spirits known as Husk Faces. They can do powerful magic. Which one are you, do you think?”
Hunt shifted uncomfortably. “Make Water. My clothes and moccasins, woman. I’m going outside.”
Meekly, she brought a clean hunting shirt, a belt, a loincloth, and leggings. “Do you need help?”
He scowled at her. “I’ve been dressing myself since I was out of leading strings.”
She waited, averting her eyes, while he struggled into his shirt and belt, then wrapped the red woolen loincloth over his genitals. When Elizabeth dropped to her knees to help him with his moccasins, he jerked them away.
“I said, I can do this myself.” As he began to slide the first one on, his toes and sole came in contact with something wet and slimy. “What the hell?” he demanded, dumping the moccasin upside down. A large clump of cooked squash plopped onto the rug. “What? You’re using my moccasins to store—”
Elizabeth covered her mouth with her fingers and giggled. “Rachel. I’m sorry.” She giggled again. “Rachel hates squash. I should have known she hasn’t been eating it.” She took the other moccasin from him and turned it upside down. Fish bones, a lump of well-chewed wintergreen, and a rabbit leg tumbled out.
“Rachel,” he echoed.
“I’m afraid so.”
Hunt pushed himself upright. Again, dizziness attacked him, but he choked it back. She moved to support him, and he slid an arm around her. “I’m not used to leaning on a woman.”
“I can see that.” She made a small sound that might have been amusement. “It really would be better if—” She broke off as she heard a sound from the entranceway. “Come in,” she called when a hand appeared at the curtain. “Wait, it’s tied shut.” She looked up into Hunt’s face.
“Go ahead. I can stand.” He thought he could stand. His knees felt like wet cornmeal; his legs seemed to belong to someone else. And his stomach ke
pt struggling to turn itself inside out.
Elizabeth pulled back the entrance flap and gestured a slim Shawnee woman wrapped in a blanket into the wigwam. “I hope Rachel was no trouble.”
“Not at all. Jamie said that Hunt was better. I’ve brought a pot of deer soup. Talon always says that my deer soup would snatch a man back from death.” She turned toward Hunt and pushed back the blanket that covered her hair. “Welcome to—” she began.
Hunt stared at her in disbelief as gooseflesh raised on his arms. He collapsed back onto the sleeping platform as all strength drained away. That voice, those eyes, could belong to only one woman on earth. “Becca?” he rasped. “Becca?”
Chapter 22
Elizabeth looked at Hunt and shook her head. “You’re wrong. The fever’s troubling you. This isn’t your lost sister—this is Fire Talon’s wife, Sweet Water.”
Sweet Water made a small, strangled sound and took a step toward him. “No ...” she whispered. “My Colin is dead.”
“Dead, hell!” Hunt insisted. “I don’t know what’s happened to your hair, but I’d bet my immortal soul that you’re Rebecca Gordon Brandt, born in Ireland and lost on the frontier when I was eight years old.”
Sweet Water’s eyes widened and she swayed slightly. “Mother of God,” she murmured, extending a hand toward Hunt. “Colin? Can it be?”
“You had red hair,” he answered hoarsely. “Red as an English fox.”
“And so it still would be,” she said, “did I not dye it with black walnut hulls.” Sweet Water moved closer to him. “With that great black beard it’s hard to tell, but your eyes ... Your eyes could be Colin’s.”
“You’re both crazy,” Elizabeth insisted, taking the Shawnee woman’s arm. “His name is Hunt Campbell.”
He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Becca,” he said. “You remember that day. You’d sent me to the creek for water. I didn’t come back, and you came to look for me.”
“Anyone could know that,” Elizabeth argued. “Indians could have told you.”
“What did they call the man who captured you?” Sweet Water demanded.
“My father was Wolf Robe of the Cheyenne,” Hunt said, “but the Shawnee called him the Stranger.”
Sweet Water flung herself on him and began to kiss his face and hair. “Colin! Colin!” she cried. “They said you were dead.”
He put his arms around her and held her as she wept tears of joy. “Becca,” he murmured. “Becca, don’t ...”
Elizabeth stood transfixed, watching them, still unable to believe what she’d heard. “His name is Hunt Campbell,” she repeated. “Hunt, not Colin.”
“My father, Wolf Robe, gave me an Indian name,” he explained when his sister had ceased to kiss him and contented herself with sitting beside him and clutching his hand. “Colin Gordon had nothing to do with the man I became. He died the day that cabin burned. I can’t remember my Irish father. When I was taken in by Ross Campbell, it seemed only natural that I should adopt his surname.”
Sweet Water glanced at Elizabeth. “He speaks truth. Among the Shawnee, a name is something private. My people often take English names.”
“But you’ve taken a Shawnee name ... a Shawnee husband,” Elizabeth replied.
“My father told me that you’d been traded back to the whites,” Hunt said. “That’s why I didn’t look for you among the Shawnee villages.”
“I hid my Christian name and my hair,” Sweet Water answered. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed the backs of his knuckles. “I grew to love Fire Talon—the warrior who captured me.”
“You wed your captor?” Elizabeth asked.
The older woman chuckled. “We’ve often argued over who captured who, but I do love him, and he loves me. If you only knew how many years we searched for you. Then Fire Talon heard that a white boy died of the pox in the village where the Stranger’s Delaware wife lived. We assumed—”
“There was another white boy there. His name was John. We went ice-fishing together.” He looked thoughtful. “It must have been John who died.”
Elizabeth balled her hands into fists at her sides. “You two—sister and brother. It’s impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Sweet Water said, wiping tears off her cheeks. “My husband’s heart will leap with happiness. If you only knew how many nights he went to sleep with ears burning from my chiding over you.”
“I still don’t understand why you pretend to be Indian,” Elizabeth said.
The Shawnee woman turned a radiant smile on her. “I am Indian. It is no pretense. My husband’s people are my people. As it says in the Book of Ruth, ‘Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’ ”
“But you remain a Christian,” Elizabeth protested. “You wear a cross, and I’ve seen you read your Bible.”
Sweet Water nodded. “His God is still my God; there is only one. We may call him by different names, but there can be only one Creator.”
Still confused, Elizabeth persisted. “Why dye your hair?”
“Practical reasons,” Sweet Water said. “I dye my hair dark to keep the English from knowing that I was born Irish. Many white-skinned captives have been forced to return to the English settlements against their will; families have been divided. It seemed better to blend into the tribe than to be a source of trouble to the Shawnee.”
Elizabeth exhaled softly. “I asked you about your blue eyes, and you lied to me.”
Sweet Water chuckled. “I didn’t lie. I said that my grandfather was Scottish. That was the truth. I may have been born in Ireland, but the Gordons hail from Scotland.” She looked back at Hunt and squeezed his hand again. “I’ve waited so long for this,” she said softly. “You’re an answer to my prayers, Colin.”
“Not Colin,” he protested. “Hunt.”
“Hunt, then. I don’t care what you call yourself, little brother,” she replied.
Elizabeth dipped a cup of the broth Sweet Water had brought. “Would you like some soup?” she offered.
Hunt grimaced. “What I would like is to go out and relieve myself.”
With much fussing and draping of furs around him, they helped him out of the wigwam. Fox was nearby, and Sweet Water motioned him over. Both women returned to the shelter of the house while Fox took Hunt into the forest.
“I have so many questions to ask,” Sweet Water said as they warmed their hands at the fire. “Where has he been all these years? What has he done?”
“When he returns, I’ll leave you alone,” Elizabeth offered. “I know you have much to talk about.” She was still worried about Hunt’s recovery. His wounds were healing without infection, but he’d lost weight and his face showed the strain of his injuries.
Sweet Water touched Elizabeth’s wrist lightly. “What are you to my brother?”
Elizabeth felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. “My father paid him to bring me back to Charles Town,” she replied stiffly. “He’s been a good friend.”
“More than a friend.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened, and she busied herself with adding wood to the fire. “We were ...” She stammered, trying to find the words to keep from making herself look like a fool before this beautiful, composed woman. “Hunt didn’t want to rescue my son. I tried to persuade him in the only way I had.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’ll go to the children,” she said in a burst of words. “Make sure Hunt doesn’t tire himself. He’s still very weak.” Throwing a fur cloak over her shoulders, she moved toward the entrance.
“I have children, Elizabeth,” Sweet Water said. “Colin—Hunt was like a son to me. Nothing you could do to save your children would make you less in my eyes.”
“Nothing?” Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. “If you ask me if I used your brother, I did. But you needn’t worry that I will expect more. My father is ...” The words choked in her throat. Sweet
Water had been kind to her, and Elizabeth didn’t want that friendship to turn to pity. In desperation, she tried to salvage a vestige of pride. “My father is a wealthy man. He will provide for me when I get home. No doubt, he’ll arrange a suitable marriage.” Gooseflesh broke out on her arms as she thought of the empty existence that stretched before her without Hunt.
“And my brother?” Sweet Water’s blue eyes shone with concern. “What of him?”
“Hunt will be well paid for his trouble,” Elizabeth answered. The cold dismissal of those words burned in the pit of Elizabeth’s belly as she hurried through the cold wind toward Sweet Water’s wigwam.
Hunt’s sister knew that Elizabeth had been a slave to a Seneca—that she had put her own life before honor. And Sweet Water also had guessed that Elizabeth had shared Hunt’s blanket. What must she think of the woman who’d put her own selfish needs before anyone else’s safety?
Shame washed over Elizabeth. She’d lied to her friend, not precisely, perhaps, but in intent. She’d made it seem as if she’d bribed Hunt with her body, and that she thought she was above his class.
While it was certainly true that her father was a titled gentleman and that he would use his wealth to find her a husband, she believed she would find little joy in the arrangement. Charles Town girls who brought dishonor on their families were often married off to planters in the Caribbean. She might make a proper marriage, but the man would be one of her father’s choosing.
The stain of her capture and enslavement by Indians would always remain with her. Ladies would watch her from behind their fans and whisper gossip about her past. She imagined herself and her children an unwelcome necessity in some isolated island manor house—the ugly bride of a man who had agreed to give her his name in exchange for the dowry she brought him.
Hunt and Fox came out of the trees. Hunt called to her, but she kept walking.
“Elizabeth,” Hunt repeated.
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