Tears shone in the boy’s troubled eyes.
Bleu took a step toward the woman and the boy’s hands dropped to his sides. On her back, her cap torn away by the wind, she lay facing away from him, eyes closed in a dead faint. “Let’s get her out of the sun.”
With a nod, the boy retrieved her cap then pointed as Bleu lifted her off the ground. “There’s a spring behind the milk house—shade.”
Bleu searched the shadows as he walked. The woman was small in stature and easily moved but he paid her scant attention, their safety foremost.
“She’s more hungry than scared.” The boy hovered, his alarm palpable. “She fainted ’cause she gave me her breakfast.”
Kneeling, Bleu placed her in shaded grass, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and wet it in the bubbling spring. Gently, he bathed her face, noting the fine features and pale-as-milk skin with the exception of her tanned, work-worn hands. Her braid trailed over her shoulder, a burnished amber-brown that reminded him of warm, sun-struck molasses. She was frightfully thin though there was no doubt she was a woman. Abelle femme.
He looked at the boy, trying to lessen his terror by talking. “Is she often in the habit of giving you her meals?”
He nodded, slightly shamefaced as if caught in a trespass. “She’s like that.”
“What happened to your legs?”
“Griffiths whipped me for leaving the smokehouse door ajar.”
“Griffiths?”
“Our bondsman.” The boy looked toward the tavern, a strange mixture of relief and grief in his expression. “Well, he ain’t no more.”
Slowly, the woman sat up, her green eyes widening at the sound of approaching horses. An expletive split the silence as an armed party slowed near the front of the tavern. Bleu tucked the wet cloth into the woman’s hand and stood.
“Militia,” she said quietly. “Settlers from outlying farms.”
He nodded, glad he wouldn’t have to bury so many he didn’t know. He extended a hand and helped her to her feet though she continued to regard him warily as if he was one of the war party.
“Wait here,” he told her and the boy.
5
Brielle fastened her gaze on the stranger’s stalwart, linen-clad shoulders as if he could keep her upright. For a few frantic seconds, scared witless, she’d feared this man was one of the warriors. Concerned someone might think him a party to the massacre had her hurrying after him as he joined the grim-faced men combing the tavern grounds.
Though she didn’t know his name, his appearance proclaimed him of two nations. Métis? She’d seen Indian delegations pass by on their way to Williamsburg to meet with the governor but few half-bloods. This man was a striking blend of both worlds. Beaded buckskin and linen. Moccasins and felt hat. Midnight black hair. And his eyes—such a startling, striking blue that went straight to the heart, arrow sharp.
“Afternoon, Miss Farrow.” The local militia captain touched the brim of his tricorn. “Glad you’re still standing.”
“Thank you, Captain Draper.” She put an arm around Titus’s shoulders and brought him nearer. “We were in the fields when they struck.”
“A blessed escape, then.” He looked to the militia who’d finished searching the tavern.
“There’s seven inside,” said one. “All dead and two scalped.”
“I count twenty-two outside,” another man said.
Brielle gestured to the stranger. “That man near the stables happened by first. I don’t yet know his name.”
“Galant.” He approached, his gaze never settling. Did he think the Indians might return? “I found sign on the way here from Fort Pitt as did another scout. Likely a large war party—Shawnee and Delaware—moving fast.”
“Just as I reckoned.” Draper’s brow tightened. “Anything else?”
“This has the mark of Bemino—Killbuck, some call him.” Galant looked north. “Once he was friendly to the whites along the Wappocomo Valley, mainly the south fork of the Potomac, but has turned hostile since.”
“Killbuck, aye. A French ally during the last war.” Draper looked at him. “Where are you headed?”
“The Rivanna River. I usually travel north of here from Fort Pitt but once I picked up the war party’s trail, I kept south but too late to raise an alarm and stop the bloodshed.”
