A breathless dread spiked as Clay drew nearer the homestead. No smoke curled above the tree line where the cabin and outbuildings lay. The place was as silent as the field. His restless gaze swept the clearing for any carnage. The open smokehouse door foretold raiding. Jude cautiously looked inside, the shake of his head negating a closer look.
The ground at the cabin and corral bore a great many moccasin and hoof prints, leaving off toward the westernmost woods. But the trail was quickly washed away in the creek. A few deeply placed heel marks leading to the water’s edge confirmed his suspicions that Tessa and at least one other had been taken captive, the horses stolen.
Zadock roamed about with a loaded rifle, calling for Tessa in that wrenching way a bereaved brother would, as if expecting to come upon her body as he had his fallen brother.
Clay studied the disturbed ground that led into the woods. “Let’s waste no more time.”
No telling when he’d return to Fort Tygart. Though the fort was weakened in the absence of even a few men, more prey to attack, they had a formidable supply of powder and bullet lead.
Clay pressed upward, leaving the valley, knowing the raiders would eventually take to the heights, where travel was easiest and ambush unlikely. The search party followed with a frightful noise. He half wished he was alone and could overtake the Indians, pick them off one by one from the rear in a silent, deadly pursuit. Yet this might well spell death for Tessa. ’Twas a treacherous chase. Even the best plan might fail, the outcome tragic and irreversible.
His gut churned, that odd breathlessness causing a sharp twinge to his ribs. Fear cut into him, never so personal as now. Not since the attack on his own homestead so long ago, the tattered memories jumbled into a tight knot he couldn’t unravel, had he been so jolted. He felt naked. Exposed. Nearly helpless. Everyone here knew how he felt about her. Their hand holding and walks within fort walls, the heaven-sent day they’d spent berry picking outside them, bespoke much. And even now they were watching to see his reaction if the worst happened.
Though these men didn’t know his underlying fight with what Maddie called the lie, they knew he loved Tessa. And she had been wrenched from his life as surely as if his loving her had propelled her there, proving once again that whatever he set his heart upon was shattered.
Almighty God, please.
The brokenness that had begun inside him long ago, only half mended, now fractured anew. As he rode at a furious pace, all manner of things flew through his head till he seemed naught but a barrel rolled downhill, every bump and crash jarring loose a tormenting possibility. Scalping. Burning. Worse.
A man can only take so much.
Spent, he finally paused at a spring to let Bolt drink. Precious moments ticked by, each widening the distance between himself and Tessa. He could only imagine her fear, her shock. Her captors were traveling fast, leaving little trail, and intent on putting the wide Ohio River between them. Only then would the chase slow on the Indians’ part.
Still they pressed on, the ridge showcasing a spectacular crimson sunset that was lost on him. Soon darkness would overtake them, and they must eat. Rest the horses. Mayhap split ranks if warranted.
When the time came, Jude dropped to his haunches beside Clay as the horses were watered and the men ate from pouches of jerky and meal.
“Been ridin’ hard now for hours.” Jude wiped his brow with one of Maddie’s neatly sewn handkerchiefs. “You’ve had plenty of time to think things through. What’s the gist of it?”
“A war party of ten or twelve. Lenape, likely. Tessa among them. Thank God we’ve come upon no corpses.” Clay swallowed, too bestirred to take the jerky from Jude’s outstretched hand. “They’re traveling fast, mayhap all night. They might divide at some point, try to fool us, or lie in wait and ambush us.”
Jude expelled a heavy breath. “I hate to ask, but do you think . . .”
Clay nodded. Tamanen. He wouldn’t speak his name. Not without it leaving a bitter taste.
Lord, let me be wrong.
But in his spirit he believed the Swans were marked by their association with him, that somehow Keturah was a part of that. No doubt Tamanen wanted to cut short any chance of happiness Clay had in future, that his rage at the whites was at its most personal in seeking revenge for Clay’s turning against the people who had raised him. Whom he’d betrayed by not returning to them when he had the chance.
“Don’t think overmuch,” Jude said. “Just pray and keep followin’ hard after them.”
The misery of the moment was so acute that Tessa swung between fury and fear. When she could not take another step without a drink of water, a bubbling rage made her nearly shout at her captor’s tawny back, “Mënihi.” Give me a drink.
’Twas what Keturah had said to them early on, before she recalled the white words. Tessa’s strangled demand brought a halt to their frenzied pace, the wolf-marked warrior turning to regard her with a menacing gaze that faded to cold irritation. Her own ire darkened to sorrow when he removed a strap from about his neck and thrust at her a flask she knew all too well.
Jasper’s. Had it been just this morning she’d made him switchel? Though the drink was quenching, it still hurt to swallow. Her oldest brother was no more. Deep in her spirit she knew. If she’d grasped this day was to be his last, she would have embraced him when she’d handed him the flask, taken a long look at him in the golden haze of daybreak, made sure there were no lingering hard feelings between the two of them.
With effort, she swallowed a second mouthful, then hung the flask around her own neck before the steady gaze of the wolfish warrior. Would he jerk it free? With a small smirk, he faced forward, studying the sky and giving her a moment to glance back, seeking Ross. He was at the rear of the column, looking as haggard as she felt. Her heart twisted anew, her earlier aggravation long gone. She yearned to go to him, comfort him. Free him. The neck noose cut into his skin, making a circlet of blood about his throat. If he fell he was in danger of being dragged by the horse in front and trampled by the one behind, both the most excitable of the Swan mounts.
Near full dark they came down from the ridge to the forest floor. Here the Indians spoke in low, quick exclamations as if agreeing on a camp for the night. She dropped to the ground, her petticoats cushioning her near fall. Across from her, Ross sat beneath a bent willow, brambles and briars raising red welts on his exposed skin. He was missing a shoe, his bare foot raw. Her own shoes had rubbed blisters, but in her dazed state she was only now aware of the throbbing ache.
The tall Indian bent to untie her hands, another doing the same with Ross. She passed the flask to Ross, stumbling over a root in her weariness. Though the desire to run was strong, they hadn’t the strength to get away. As if sensing this, their captors treated them almost carelessly, tossing them a pouch of parched corn while they feasted on the smokehouse stealings, turning their backs to examine the guns they’d taken.
She had no appetite, yet without food she could not endure another day’s journey. Her mouth worked slowly, finding the maize strange and dry. Before the third swallow she fell into an uneasy sleep, head pillowed on her arm.
She awakened to Ross holding a bayoneted musket, head bent as he examined what looked like a broken hammer. The wayward cub! Would he continue to help those who might well fire the musket at him when fixed? Or stab him with the bayonet? The urge to cry out for him to stop was once again stifled by sheer, jaw-clenching will. On he worked as daylight eroded, the Indians observing closely as he repaired the old gun.
She lay still, eyes closed, trying to grasp for the good amid the bad. How thankful she was not to lie on cold winter ground. Though the snow might leave a plainer trail, bitter weather might be as dangerous as the tomahawks and scalping knives glinting in the last of daylight. In winter food was scarce, blankets hard to come by . . .
