by Jenna Brandt
“On the contrary, Margaret saved my life back in France, and now it’s time for me to return the favor. I am coming whether you like it or not, so just accept it.”
Cort forced a grim smile. “All right. I probably need all the help I can get.”
They had been following their tracks for over five days now. Cort had a renewed respect for Margaret’s brother. He had managed to keep up and not complain about anything. Randall was a lot like his sister. He saw the same determination in Randall to find Margaret that was such an intricate part of Margaret’s character.
Margaret…. If they hurt her, he knew it just might drive him over the edge. Right now, all that was holding him together were two things. He realized that she was still alive and counting on him to save her, and most importantly, God was on his side. He had peace that only God could give him. He was sustaining Cort and guiding him.
Cort knew God had brought them together and God would restore their family. Cort could see that there was still pain from Margaret’s past that she had not given to the Lord. Even though her love for God was apparent, she still wanted control of her life. Because her whole life had always been decided for her by others, she was scared to give up authority to anyone, even her Creator. God was not done with Margaret, and He had promised Cort that he was going to make her whole again. God would not let her die until that promise was fulfilled. He knew this, and it was the ultimate reason that kept him going. Wherever she was, he knew she was alive.
“What are you thinking about? You have an odd look on your face.”
Noticing that there had been an abrupt change in direction, Cort was filled with worry. From the marks in the dirt, it looked like there had been a scuffle between a few of the Indians over something. “It seems that our friends had an argument and parted ways. Two of them went this way and the other three went in the other direction, taking Margaret with them.”
“You can tell all that from those markings in the ground?”
Cort nodded but did not enlighten him with the information that he had been a scout and guide during his time in the military. He did not want to have to explain everything right now.
“It seems you have many hidden talents.”
Cort looked at Randall and raised an eyebrow in amusement, then grinned. “Yes, well, I like to keep people guessing.”
“You manage quite nicely, I say.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You would.”
Cort shrugged. “We need to keep going.”
Randall pulled back on his reins and his horse started trotting as he turned his head and shouted, “Are you coming?”
Without saying a word, Cort nudged his horse forward with his spurs and followed his friend.
Chapter 12
When the Indians first took her hostage, Margaret had been terrified. They looked at her as if she were not even there, just a pawn they planned to use.
She had assumed they would at least take into account her obvious state of being with child, but that also had no effect on them. Every minute, she feared she would lose the baby.
She was exhausted from their never-ending travel. They never stopped, just kept pushing forward. But to where? She had no idea where they were taking her.
They had bound her hands with rope and tied her to the saddle of one of the horses—as if she truly were an animal that they had trapped.
In the beginning, Margaret had managed to keep up due to the protection from her boots. As the conditions of the path worsened, her feet began to crack and bleed, causing every single step to be excruciating. She forced herself not to dwell on it, but prayed internally for God’s protection and mercy until Cort found her.
“So, explain to me, Cort, how did you know what those markings in the path meant back there?”
Cort pushed the smoldering pieces of wood around in the fire while he sat quietly pondering how to answer.
“I was in the Royal Army several years ago. I was trained to be a tracker and guide.”
“Really? How long were you in Her Majesty’s Army?”
“Five years.”
“And you tracked for that whole time?”
“No, I advanced up the ranks and was a lieutenant toward the end.”
“It sounds like you were planning on making it a career. Any particular reason why you left?”
“You could say that.”
“Do you mind enlightening me?”
“I was framed for desertion.”
“Come again?”
“Someone had it out for me and set me up to look like a deserter. When we were on shore for a short leave, this person had a few thugs waiting outside a bar for me. They beat me to a bloody pulp and hid me away in some remote place. By the time I got out of there, my ship had set sail without me. When I made it back to England, they were looking for me to throw me into prison. I managed to get out of town before they could locate me.”
“But I am sure you had friends higher up in the chain of command. Why did you not have one of them fix things?”
“The man who framed me was quite powerful. Escaping to America was my only option.”
“This enemy of yours sounds like a nasty brute. What did you do to earn his wrath?”
“Guilt by relation. I am his half brother.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“He viewed me as a threat to his ‘kingdom’ that he was going to inherit. But the ridiculous part of it all was that, even if I had wanted to try to claim it, I could not have.”
“Why is that?”
“You see, Randall, I am illegitimate. You know English law as well as anyone. If you are not legitimate, you cannot inherit anything. Besides, I never wanted any of it anyway. I never did understand why he was so determined to get rid of me.”
“So, you left just like that? It could not have been that easy leaving the country.”
“It was not. I was lucky and had the help from a few loyal friends.”
“You seem to be careful in what you are telling me. Why?”
Cort sighed in exasperation. He might as well tell him everything or he was just going to keep hounding him. It was smarter if he just told him and made him swear not to tell Margaret.
“Because there is more to this story and I have not told any of it to Margaret.”
“Why have you not told her?”
“It is safer if she does not know.”
“Well, what is it?”
“My half brother is the Duke of Witherton.”
Randall inhaled sharply and then stared at Cort for several seconds. “What are the odds of that?”
“Incredibly slight.”
“What are you implying?”
“I think that God is at work in this somehow. I am not sure why, but I have a feeling that it will become clear once things have played out.”
“You do know that the duke is the reason we fled here to the Americas.”
“Yes, Margaret told me that.”
“Do you also know what he did to her first husband, and her fiancé, Michel?”
“Yes, I know that too.”
“He has been tracking us. It is only a matter of time until he finds her and my nephew again.”
“I realize that as well.”
“What do you plan to do when he finds her?”
“I plan to rid all our lives of him permanently.”
Randall nodded, accepting Cort at his word. “There has been something else that has been bothering me ever since I found out about the child you are expecting.”
“What is that?”
“You said, ‘It will be good to hold a baby again.’ What did you mean by that?”
Cort grit his teeth together, fighting back the dark feelings that flooded him. What was going on now was so close to what he had gone through with Estella’s and Pollina’s deaths that it brought back all the old, horrible feelings. Worse, there was a sense of urgency to act fast because he was ra
cing against time in order to get to Margaret before they harmed her.
He did not want to talk about this, and it frustrated him that Randall was far more observant than he had given him credit for in the beginning.
“When I fled here, I started completely over. For a few years, I was alone until I met Estella. We got married and had a daughter. I was speaking of holding her.”
“What happened to them?”
“I left them alone and Indians attacked the homestead. They killed them both.”
“My God, Cort, I am sorry.”
“Yes, well, I wish it had ended there. But I went after them and that’s when I came across your party. We wounded and killed several of them, but as you know, some escaped. It was the remnants of that war party who attacked our place and took Margaret captive.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it. You see, they came after me and took Margaret as leverage. She is bait, and once they have me, they will kill us both. I believe it is a blood vengeance for one of the Cheyenne I killed.”
“This seems to be just one giant bloody mess, does it not?”
“That it does, Randall. That it does.”
Margaret’s group arrived in the Indian camp at dusk. The people who greeted them were not friendly to the stranger; some looked at her skeptically while others scowled at her. The children ran after them and yelled at her.
Margaret closed her eyes as they paraded her down the middle of the camp. She did not want to see the mocking faces glaring at her. Instead, she pinched her eyes tightly shut and prayed to God.
Oh Lord, please help me now. I do not have the strength to carry on anymore. I cannot take anything else these people may do to me. Protect me in this most vulnerable hour.
When she opened her eyes, she found herself standing in front of an older Indian who she assumed was the chief of the tribe due to the headdress he was wearing and the respect he garnered from all the other members. He was staring at her, not with the contempt the others had shone, but rather with what seemed to be a mixture of curiosity and something else—something that shot chills up Margaret’s back.
He turned his head to the left and said something to the woman next to him. After a moment, the woman, who seemed to be the chief’s servant, turned and entered the tent behind them.
The chief then said something in their native tongue and motioned for the leader of the war party to come forward. She held her breath, knowing that right then, the two men were deciding what was to be done with her.
At first, the conversation seemed to be going smoothly, but then there was some sort of disagreement between the two men. The leader of the war party was gesturing toward her, and the chieftain was shaking his head as he folded his arms across his chest in what looked to be a resolved decision.
The chief’s servant came out of the tent, carrying what appeared to be an Indian girl’s dress and moccasins. The woman returned to her spot next to the chieftain, holding the articles of clothing in her arms.
The chief grunted and motioned toward Margaret. Two of the Cheyenne warriors who had helped capture her forced her forward and onto her knees in front of the old Indian and then stepped back.
Without any warning, he reached out and grabbed her roughly by the arms. Margaret squelched her desire to scream in fear. She forced herself to stay perfectly still and tried not to shake as best she could. The two times she had been kidnapped had taught her to show as little weakness as possible.
Angered by her lack of visible fear, he glared at her for several seconds.
Margaret tried not to flinch with his face only inches away from her own. She wondered what he was thinking. What was he planning on doing with her? Would they kill her immediately or keep her as a trophy?
Slowly, a sneer crossed the chief’s face as he grunted a second time before letting go of her and taking the clothes from his servant. When he threw them down on the ground in front of her, she mechanically picked them up. He pointed to the clothes in her hands and said, “You put on now.”
She blinked and started to step around him to go into the tent, but he put out his arm, saying, “No, put on here.”
Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat. Somehow, when she thought the degradation could get no worse, these people managed to find a way. The thought of all these people seeing her in her undergarments made her seethe with fury. This latest antic might be her undoing. She did not know if she could keep it together, but she reminded herself that she needed to do what they said until Cort could find her.
She dropped the Indian clothes in front of her and took in a deep breath as her hands fluttered to the top buttons of her light blue and white gingham blouse. With shaky fingers, she managed to undo the buttons of her blouse. She shrugged it off and picked up the squaw dress. She stood up and slipped on the dress over her shift, then pulled off her skirt from underneath. When she was done, she lifted her chin in quiet defiance.
The chief shouted something in a mocking tone and everyone around her started to laugh. Margaret clenched her teeth and narrowed her eyes in anger. She hated being laughed at more than anything. She balled her hands into fists, fighting back the urge to do something reckless.
For several moments, they laughed, pointed at her, and made cruel comments that were clearly about her. She continued to keep her eyes averted and her face and body void from showing any emotions.
The chief watched her closely for several seconds before yelling something to the crowd around them. Abruptly, everyone stopped and turned their attention to him. He raised his hands and made a motion, causing the people to disperse until it was just the two of them left alone.
“You come with me, Heart Full of Fire.”
Margaret frowned as she followed the chief into his tent. “Why did you call me that?”
“I see fire in heart. You try to hide, but I see. I know it there. You can fool others, not me.”
“I was not trying to fool anyone. I was doing what I had to in order to survive.”
“You wish to survive?”
“Yes, more than anything.”
“What so important?”
“My children.”
“Children?”
“Yes, I have a son back home and a child”—she rested her hand on her stomach—“on the way.”
The chief’s eyebrows burrowed together as he grunted, then said, “What of husband?”
“Yes, I wish to survive for him as well.”
“And he come for you?”
“Yes, he will. As the very air I breathe, I know he is coming for me.”
“Good.”
A look of surprise crossed Margaret’s face as she asked, “Why is that good?”
“That what we want.”
“I do not understand.”
“Death for death.”
Chapter 13
Even as an expert tracker, Cort was having a difficult time following the Indians who took Margaret.
“Do you think we are getting closer?”
“I hope so. It has been two days since we lost their trail.”
“It was a lot of bad luck, that sandstorm.”
“Yes, it has managed to make things much harder.”
“Do you think…? I mean, would they hurt her?”
“I pray to God they will not, but I do not know. They are not known for being kind to their captives.”
“Yes, well, if any woman could hold their own with a bunch of savages, it would be Mags.”
“Yes, I am sure if they did try anything, she would make it pretty difficult for them.”
“Let us hope it never comes to that.”
Margaret pushed her wet hair off her face and grabbed the edge of the blanket to wipe the sweat from her brow. Having another sleepless night, she took deep breaths, trying to calm herself before getting up.
She could not let her captors see the fear in her. They would use it against her. She had managed to survive two weeks without being abused; she could make it unti
l Cort got there if she was cautious.
She placed her hand on her stomach as her baby kicked softly against her. It comforted her to feel the little life still thriving within her. She would do whatever it took to keep her baby safe.
Once she had herself under control, she quickly stood up and felt the cold breeze against her cheek.
Even though she hated being at the Indian camp and despised being their captive, she also acknowledged their lives were simpler, and therefore easier in some ways. They did only what they needed to live. They did not kill themselves to gain more than what they needed. But although she could respect how little they cared for material possessions, there were also negative things about their way of life. They treated women even worse than her society did. Women were little more than dogs to them. They used them and treated them as slaves.
Anxiously, she waited each day, hoping that Cort was going to arrive to free her and take her home. Yet part of her also feared when he did come, because he would be walking into a trap. She hated that they were able to use her as bait to lure him into their clutches.
Escape was futile. There was always someone with her at all times, even when she bathed or went to the privy. The night before, she had tried to sneak away when she thought everyone was sleeping. She had snuck out through one of the side flaps of the tent, but apparently, the old chief could hear better than she had perceived. He found her, despite how quiet she had tried to be. He had grabbed her arm and yanked her around, demanding angrily, “Why you try leave? You stupid. You run, you die.”
Was he threatening her? Margaret knew he would follow threw if she defied him again. Though she did not fear for her own life, she would not risk the life of the baby. She resolved her only option was to wait until Cort found her.
“Pardon me for asking, but how do you plan to get Maggie back? Not meaning to be the voice of doom, but there are dozens of those Indians and just the two of us.”
“I have a plan.”
“I am sure you do, but if you do not mind, I would like to be in on it.”
