There, on a sticker bush at the wood’s edge, was another tendril of cloth. His heart lurched. Tessa. Still alive. Still able to leave a remnant of their swift journey, providing clear direction as to which way she had gone. The sign was nothing short of miraculous, somehow escaping her captors’ unwavering scrutiny and confirming the trail he must take. He broke through the brush with renewed haste, his confidence seeming to spur Bolt on as well.
Was their reunion almost at hand? Any wrong move on his part might prove disastrous. He was one man against what looked to be five or better. He could get a couple of strategic shots off that might let her get out of harm’s way before he reloaded and took aim at the rest. It helped that she had that frontier quick-wittedness, one of many reasons he admired her. Her life depended on his response—and hers.
He ducked to escape a low-hanging branch, his thoughts crammed full of her even as his gaze swept the forest floor. Time had never been so precious. He needed to find her, hold her tight. Take her to Fort Pitt out of ruination’s way and marry her. Resign his post. He ached with the weight of his love for her and the uncertainty of the moment.
The sunset was a crimson smear, the murmur of thunder distant. Coming to the bottom of a gorge crisscrossed with fallen timber, he inched past a noisy waterfall, leaving Bolt hobbled out of sight. A high, sharp whinny of another horse sent him to his knees. It had come from just over the rise as it led out of the gorge. Crouching low, he moved upward, higher, his breath coming in repressed bursts, the hungry hours honing his senses.
His aim must be true.
The bay horse’s high whinny overrode the murmur of thunder. Tessa’s worn senses sharpened even as her guard shoved her down behind a laurel bush, her face to the earth. Around her the other Indians quickly took cover, weapons pointed toward the rise looming over them. Her pulse quickened as her painted captor stood over her, moccasined feet firmly planted on her loosened hair to keep her pinned.
The forest seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Even the birdsong ceased. Tessa lay motionless, scalp taut as her hair was yanked, the laurel’s blooms pressing against her with bony stems.
Lord, I want to live. Let this come to a quick end.
Two Indians circled back, climbing up the hill through dense brush so stealthily they made no sound. As they stepped closer to the top, treeing in their ascent, nary a twig snapped or a leaf rustled. Her skewed view took in what she could.
Her captor shifted, the ache to her scalp heightened. Thunder threatened louder but the rain withheld. The horses behind them grew more unsettled, at risk of bolting. At the bedrock of her awareness came a sense of dread. Not her own but the Indians’. Keturah had told her of the Lenape’s fear of Clay. She had not understood, yet she felt the Indians’ wariness. Clay had come for her. Was crouched somewhere behind that rocky, leafy rise. Knowing it, sensing all that was at stake, she felt at once a thrill and terror.
The Indians raised their guns as they took positions behind brush and trees. All but the man who stood over her, firmly fastening her to the ground, his own rifle raised. She had no doubt he’d use the tomahawk and scalping knife at his belt if it came to that.
So exhausted was she bodily that even her thoughts were sluggish but for one ongoing, hope-filled plea.
Almighty God, help Thou me.
His Quaker roots wouldn’t give him any peace, their “Thou shalt not bear arms” a constant reproach. But how many men, even Friends, caught in the crux of saving a loved one or not violating a tenet, would choose the latter? Clay peered through a spicewood thicket, able to see down into the bowl-shaped hollow from his position, though the Indians could not see him. But they were ready, guns raised. If fear had a smell, it was here, both his own and theirs. His for Tessa. Theirs because they feared more than his rifle, steeped in superstition as they were.
Summoning all the life within him, he let out a hair-raising war whoop. It had been his rallying cry, his call, when he was with the Lenape in battle. Never had he used it against them till now. One Indian broke and ran at the sound, the rustle of brush eliminating one target, at least. But Tamanen stood his ground, as did the other warriors, muting Clay’s fleeting burst of pleasure. Their horses scattered, nervy about the thunder of both guns and skies. Slowly, Clay raised his rifle, intent on the man who held Tessa to the forest floor.
Keturah’s Indian husband. His own Lenape brother.
Emotion rose up and clouded his eyes, and he silently cursed the weakness. He stayed stone still when a shot rang out. The ball nicked the tree nearest him, widely errant of its mark and spraying bark. They meant to call him out of hiding, end his advantageous position.
Shifting a bit to the left, he trained his sights on Tamanen, who was well hidden behind a thick maple. He could make out Tessa’s dress, her slim silhouette on the ground below him. The humbling sight steeled his resolve. Tamanen was a good two hundred yards distant, but Clay’s charge of black powder could reach farther. A hot wind smacked him, unseating his hat and threatening his aim. He closed the frizzen and cocked the hammer. The slight click seemed to echo, a forewarning of the trigger pull.
When Tamanen’s dark head appeared for a spare second, Clay fired. The charge tore through the narrow hollow like cannon fire.
“Run!” he yelled at Tessa.
Amid the bellow of white smoke, he got off another shot, this time at the warrior climbing up the rise nearest him. The warrior toppled backwards, crashing through brush, his bare body rolling till a stand of laurel caught him. Out of the corner of Clay’s eye came a flash of indigo. He raised up ever so slightly to better see down the narrow defile. In that instant a shattering pain rent his skull, sparks exploding in his brain like a hammer on a red-hot anvil. Before Tessa could get to him, his world went black.
Bile shot up Tessa’s throat as she watched Clay drop. Frantic, she rolled from beneath the tall warrior, his body partially covering hers when he slumped to the ground, her fingers catching the sharp edge of his tomahawk. Blood ran from her clenched fist, staining her filthy skirt scarlet. The shock of it set her heels on fire. With a last look over her shoulder at the warrior’s still body, she clawed her way up the draw, clear of the Indians still firing.
Head a-spin, she made it to the top of the rise where she’d seen Clay fall, blood and dirt beneath her fingernails, a sticker bush tearing one side of her petticoat away, the rise and fall of her chest excruciatingly tight. She had no weapon, yet never was one so needed. Before her, at the very top of the hill, a now roused Clay grappled with a warrior in a deadly struggle.
A cry rose in her throat, so winded it was more a feeble screech. Blood pulsed from Clay’s skull, making a scarlet mask of his eyes. Lying on his back, he held the warrior’s upraised hand with its long knife in a slippery grip, seconds away from the knife’s fatal plunge.
Desperate, Tessa looked about for a stick or a rock to hurl at his enemy. Fingers curling around a sharp piece of limestone, she pulled it free of dirt and fallen leaves. Careful to come at the warrior’s back side, she crept toward him, nearly dropping the heavy rock. The deathly struggle played out before her gaze, Clay’s hand slipping down the bare arm of the Indian as if losing its grip.
A musket ball whirled past, so close she heard its whistle. Stumbling then righting herself, she kept on. In one frantic heave she brought the rock down on the Indian’s exposed scalp with all her might. He stiffened, arms outflung before he toppled backwards. In one swift motion Clay grabbed for his rifle on the ground before reaching for her and pulling her behind a rocky outcropping.
Raising a shirtsleeve, he swiped at his eyes before reloading and firing a final time. Unable to look, Tessa kept her head down, his hard-muscled body like a wall in front of her.
Once the smoke cleared, the forest was still as a grave.
Her heart, so bruised over Ross and what she was sure was Jasper’s fate, fractured anew in the eerie lull. But Clay, God be praised, was alive, every fiber of his being so tense he had the look of a skulking panther. Lord, have mercy. His head wound fretted her. He needed it bound and cleaned. She tore at her ripped petticoat, freeing a long piece that would serve.
“Stay still and let me see to your wound.” Her voice was a whisper. She didn’t want to touch him without warning in the heightened state he was in. Shifting to her knees, she tried to wipe his face clean before winding the makeshift bandage around his hatless head.
