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Beneath the Blackberry Moon Part 1: the Red Feather (Creek Country Saga) (Volume 1)

By April W Gardner

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Chapter One

Tensaw Settlements, present-day Alabama
Blackberry Moon (June) 1813

From inside the cool, shadowy wood, Totka Lawe squinted into a bright meadow. Its broad sea of undulating bromegrass lay empty. Deceptive. He tuned his senses to the cold fingers of foreboding walking up his spine. His own fingers clenched both the wooden war club tucked into his belt and the lead rope of the packhorse snuffling at his ear.
Go through, or around?
Eight other warriors deliberated beside him, but it was his sister’s husband, Nokose, who would have the final say. Grandmother Sun neared the end of her trek, bringing to a close the delegation’s first day on the return trail to their talwa, Kossati, their Upper Creek village. One more sleep in land occupied by whites, followed by another two in Creek country. Then home.
He swatted a mosquito from his ear and waited for Nokose to speak. Sweat coursed a line from his roached hair over the bare side of his head and down his neck. He shifted his weight to hide his impatience.
With each passing day, their mission grew more burdensome, their cargo more loathsome. The old wound in Totka’s leg throbbed, but he pushed beyond it and centered the load more squarely across his packhorse’s flank. The scents of horseflesh and leather failed to soothe him as he flicked glances through the trees.
This was white man’s land. For a little while longer. Soon, the Red Sticks would engage in war and then the land would be theirs once again.
At a stirring behind them, Totka stroked the sleek upper limb of his unstrung bow. No smelly, cumbersome musket for him. He peered into the murky shrubs. The darkness that descended held more than night. It seethed with intolerance and distrust so thick it could be measured in every narrowed gaze, in every unspoken word.
Totka no longer questioned whether he’d chosen the correct faction. For better or worse, he’d staked his claim with the Red Sticks. The scarlet feather tied to his hair had sealed it.
All he lacked was another battle, another feat of courage or extraordinary achievement, or another few scalps—white or red—to adorn the red pole in Kossati’s council square. Any one of those would bring his name before the council and, if the spirits wished, earn him higher rank.
The mare tossed her head and sidestepped, shoving him into a thorny bush, then swung back in the opposite direction. Feeding off his nervous handling most likely.
As he extricated himself from the shrub, the hem of his long-shirt snagged on a briar and ripped. Singing Grass, his elder sister, would have choice words for him.
“Ho, ho,” he cooed, shadowing the horse’s steps. He stroked her sweaty, quivering shoulder, but she stretched and strained against the tether. Head high, she rolled her eyes, revealing the whites, but Totka held firm.
The animal had tested his patience from sunup, and he anticipated hobbling her and brushing the day’s dust from his leggings.
At last, Nokose spoke. “We camp there. Strike no fires.” He pointed across the pasture toward a dip in the trees that gave promise of running water. Instead of skirting the open expanse, as Totka might have done, Nokose entered its midst at a modest tempo.
Tall Bull exchanged a look with Totka. Sweat rippled on his furrowed brow. “Before this journey is through,” he said for Totka alone, “your sister’s husband will set us all on the journey the Darkening Land.”
Loyalty blazed a fiery trail over Totka’s quick tongue. “Envy has spoiled your judgment, Cousin. Nokose has more knowledge of this region than the rest of us combined.”
To prove he trusted his brother-in-law, Totka ushered up a prayer to the Wind Spirit for invisibility to the white man’s eye, then tugged the mare’s rope and fell into place behind the third packhorse. As he entered daylight, perspiration moistened his upper lip and seeped into the corner of his eye, burning a trail across his inner lid.
The breeze became a living thing, drying his eyes and thrashing the loose tail of his roach against his back. Ahead, Nokose scraped a blanket of hair from his face only to have it flung back.
But the Wind Spirit was blowing in from the East, the source of all life and success. He told himself it was a good omen.
Above the treetops, a short distance away, rose a single, orderly column of smoke. A white man’s cabin no doubt. So close, and they, so exposed. Clamping a scathing remark between his teeth, Totka noted their position in the field. Nearly there.
He lanced the looming woods with a sharpened gaze and considered the long, cool drink he would take from that stream. Fifty strides more. Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty—
The mare balked, wrenching Totka’s joints. He spun and pulled against her as she careened her hindquarters out of line, hooves stamping. A flash of movement an arm’s reach to his right caught his peripheral vision. In the same instant, the mare reared, tearing the rope from Totka’s sweaty palm.
Under the weight of her burden, she came down hard on her front hooves, one of them wrenching into a rut. With a sickening pop, her knee caved. The animal’s scream pierced Totka through and all but swallowed the one coming from behind him. As the horse sank to her knees, the pack lurched violently, its bands snapping, its leaden contents disgorging and spilling over the mare’s neck and head.
Through another shriek and smack, the horse’s head met the ground.
Totka leapt backward, the iron mudslide nipping at his toes, and collided with the unmistakable hedge of a woman’s soft, yielding body. The feminine cry of alarm confirmed it. In the two breaths it took him to pivot, seize her about the waist, and fling her aside with him, his mind stuttered at the thought of a woman suddenly there where before had been only grass.
They hit the dirt, he on top, she releasing a soft oomph in his ear.
Hand on her belly, he pushed off her, eager to free her of him, but a glimpse of her sunset hair stopped him short.
This was a white woman. And a good fraction of the Red Sticks’ firepower lay exposed at his feet.
Alarm zinged every nerve ending.
She lay flat on her back, arms splayed, mouth an oval of surprise.
Had she seen the weapons before Totka knocked her over?
If she had, more than one man in the delegation would demand her life. And he would be the one expected to take it. But nothing said “guilty” like taking a life. Could he render her unconscious? His elbow was primed for a strike that she would not see coming. His muscles bunched, then froze—and if she had seen nothing?
Thinking better of it, he cupped her shoulder with a palm and aligned his weight, ready to pin her when she attempted to rise. He would take his chances.
Eyes wide, she took him in.
He welcomed her scrutiny, so long as she kept the scream in her throat and her eyes on him instead of the tangle of muskets that still tumbled and clattered around the thrashing horse.
He squelched the dread souring his stomach. Killing women was beneath any self-respecting warrior—an unpopular conviction that he kept to himself—but if called upon, he would do what he must.
Except for a convulsive swallow, she hadn’t stirred since she’d landed. Or uttered a sound. Shock?
He peered behind him.
Several men scrambled to calm the animal. Another tossed a blanket over the spill. Nokose crouched over the horse’s throat, knife drawn. Long Arrow, Totka’s boyhood friend, locked the horse’s head in the crook of his arm. The animal would have to be destroyed.
“Why don’t you kill the woman? Or at least blindfold her.” Tall Bull, Totka’s cousin, stood nearby, observing as Nokose probed the animal’s neck for an artery.
“No. Only . . . keep her down and quiet,” Nokose said, “until we’ve cleared the weapons.”
Long Arrow spoke softly in the mare’s ear as Nokose pierced her hide, drawing another squeal. Blood arched a spurting trail of red across Totka’s arm and the woman’s chin and forehead.
She blinked fast as though woken from sleep. A sharp intake of breath preceded an equally sharp demand, but Totka’s limited English failed him.
“Tell her she is safer where she is,” Nokose called. “That she may rise when we are finished collecting the spilled trade goods.”
Keeping a watchful eye on her, Totka raised his voice. “Why do you not lie to her? You speak her tongue far better than I.” And Totka had always been a terrible liar.
“Tell her the word wait,” Nokose offered.
“Wait?” she repeated, her evergreen eyes sparking.
Totka braced himself for battle. But she was a little thing and would be easy enough to subdue. “She does not approve of your word.” He purged the irritation from his tone to avoid agitating the woman further.
Long Arrow chuckled. “Most women do not.”
With her first simple attempt to rise, Totka locked his elbow and wagged his head. With her second, he flung a light leg over her abdomen and dispensed a narrow-eyed look of warning. When she spouted a lone, heated word and rammed his thigh with the heels of her hands, he seized her wrists in a loose, single-handed hold and frowned his displeasure.
Her lips stretched into a line before releasing a string of hushed, yet adamant words. Blood slithered over her forehead and stained crimson the burnished copper roots of her hair. The overpowering stench of it filled his nostrils and coated the back of his tongue.
She wrinkled her nose and glared at him; he stared back, working to keep his expression unreadable, unruffled. Uncompromising.
Behind him, the sounds of shuffling feet and clinking metal gave him hope that he might soon release her. If not, he would have a genuine fight on his hands.
Perhaps she understood Muskogee? “Whose woman are you?” he asked. If she belonged to any of the Creek countrymen living in Tensaw, there was a chance she’d honed Red Stick sympathies.
Her response was to knee him in the back. The ineffective thump resonated through his chest.
“Woman, stay.” These words he knew from a neighboring Scotsman. One, the man used on his wife; the other, on his dog.
She retorted with another set of gibberish. If she slowed down, he might catch—ah! A word he understood, why. Although he had no intention of responding to it. At least not with the truth.
“Nokose, tell me you have those muskets hidden,” Totka said.
“Patience. Almost there.” Nokose spoke through the huff of labor.
“Why so eager to be free of her?” Tall Bull snorted a laugh. “You’re doing fine work handling the woman. Even if you are sorely out of practice.”
Totka envisioned the smug satisfaction on his cousin’s face. Three winters beyond the deed, the man continued to flaunt his theft of Leaping Waters’ heart.
“Not a man here will deny I have the more desirable of the two tasks.”
“You will eat those words when Nokose tells you to free her of that pretty scalp.” Long Arrow clearly did not know the true Nokose.
One of the others might be willing to order the woman’s death, but not Totka’s brother. He was partly responsible for teaching Totka to respect the helpless ones, especially those of the whites who did not understand the way in which Muscogees made war.
The murderous Choctaws, the Long Hairs, who’d burned his mother, took the rest of the credit.
Totka shot Long Arrow a smirk. “Not the most challenging way to take hair.”
Tall Bull, who busied himself strapping several firearms to the burgeoning pack of another of the horses, glanced Totka’s direction. “There is little honor in war with the whites, no matter their sex. The men fight like women and die with fear in their eyes. Better to slit her throat and be done with it. Now or later. Either way, it will happen.”
An angry fire lit within Totka. If his thieving cousin tried it, he’d better look to his own throat. Not bothering to snuff out his anger, Totka studied the wisp of a woman in his charge.
Blood-splattered skin, hair wild and aflame about her head, pulse erratic at her throat, breast rising and falling in short, rapid succession, apron askew. Quite the vision. One he would be loath to destroy.
Through tense lips she blew at the hair strewn across her mouth. It fluttered upward but fell straight back. Utterly disarrayed she eyed him with focused, unblinking composure, as though she guarded a secret he wished to know. And he did. What thoughts traipsed behind those bright eyes?
If she became aware they discussed her scalp, would her self-possession hold? At what point would she turn into a sniveling muddle? They all did, these white women. This one must be close to shattering, although the blood painting her face gave her an unconquerable air.
“War paint,” he murmured. At the ridiculous notion, an unbidden smile rose to his lips. He banished it, but not before her line of sight skipped to his mouth where it lingered several beats longer than expected.
There was no way this woman—any woman—under these circumstances would cater to physical attraction, and when her eyes returned to his as steady and hard as before, his theory proved correct.
But it was too late. He’d already catered to it himself, and in a flash she appeared cast in an altogether different light.
His heart gave a stiff kick, then set a new rhythm he was powerless to regulate. He wrenched his gaze away to peer into the surrounding wall of swaying pasture and willed himself to more mundane thoughts.
Before he could find them, she spoke several words—a polite request, by the tone and upward inflection—but he refused to look at her lest he soften.
Who was he fooling? He had already softened. May the spirits strengthen him if he was called upon to silence her.
Old Grandfather’s timorous voice returned to him. You were born a man of counsel, a White Stick. Beware of misplaced desires. A warrior’s rank will bring you much pain. Wishing the Beloved Man had never spoken the words, Totka tensed, his nostrils flaring. “Nokose! Waiting for the pale faces to arrive? To challenge them to a stickball match, perhaps? Hurry up!”
At his shout, the woman emitted a squeak of pain, fright at last enlarging her eyes.
He instantly loosened his pinching grip on her wrists, then growled at his base instincts. At times he wished himself a ruthless warrior, like Tall Bull. Then maybe he wouldn’t be so conflicted. Of all wishes, he wished Nokose would finish repacking and rid him of this female!
She squirmed and Totka, eyes averted, tightened his thighs until Nokose came and, gleaming with sweat, stood beside them. Arms folded, he avoided Totka’s inquiring gaze, while meeting the woman’s from between slitted lids. He cocked his head at her and frowned. Did he recognize the woman? If so, she gave no indication it was mutual.
After a moment, he loosened his stance and addressed her in English. They exchanged several lines, and she relaxed somewhat, allowing Totka to ease the tension on his aching leg.
When she was done speaking, Nokose turned to Totka, the corner of his mouth twitching. “She claims she was hunting dreams. She also chides us for our rude behavior seeing we are guests on her father’s land.”
“Does she now?”
A quizzical sneer lifted Tall Bull’s lip. “Don’t believe her. Why would she sleep in the grass?”
Nokose ignored him. “And she insists she did not see a store of English muskets in our possession.”
Totka leveled a flat expression on his brother. “She said nothing of the sort.”
Nokose shrugged, the twitch returning. “True. I failed to ask. But how could she see anything with your beautiful face and charming disposition so near?”
“You have chosen the wrong vocation, my noble friend. Perhaps instead of Great Warrior, you should aspire to village clown.”
Nokose angled away from the woman and grinned. “Bad news though—you must release her.”
“I had begun to think you would never give me leave.” Totka freed her hands and flipped his leg off her.
Like a startled rabbit, she bounded up, then scooted backwards, studying his war club and scrubbing at the crusty blood on her face. Indignation elevated her chin, but as he climbed to his feet, he noted the tremble in her hand as she straightened the apron tied about her waist.
She alternately eyed him and scoured the field. For whom? Long Arrow had cleared the area so that only Totka, his cousin, and his brother remained with the woman. But this was her land, and she knew who may or may not be about. And when these people found her, they would be presented with a picture and story to boil their ire and launch them into pursuit.
Wariness constricted the muscles in Totka’s back, but Tall Bull looked bored, and Nokose stood placid. Nokose offered her a few slow phrases, mollifying in tenor, then jutted his chin toward the smoke snaking into the westerly sky.
She moved to leave, but Totka halted her with a quick reach of his arm to hers.
Confusion and a hint of anxiety scrolled across her face. Her arm went rigid while he scrambled for correct pronunciation. “Wait. Small wait.” The words felt bulky on his tongue, but they worked.
Some of the apprehension eased from her eyes, even as she licked dry lips and rose up on her toes as though considering flight.
Tall Bull edged closer. “You should take that stunning hair and be done with her.”
“Hold your tongue and back away.” What had Leaping Waters been thinking to choose Totka’s cousin over him?
Without breaking eye contact with the white woman, Totka gestured at Nokose’s waist. “Give me your water gourd.” Surprisingly, Nokose complied without argument. As he did, Totka tore a length of fabric from the ripped hem of his shirt, then wet it with a generous splash of water, and swiped it across his chin in demonstration before passing it to her.
A bob of her head and a tentative touch to the splatter on her neck, told Totka she’d understood.
Palm down, he flicked his fingers at her. “Woman, go. Home.”
She didn’t hesitate to accept the dismissal.
When Nokose made no move to leave but watched her lengthen the distance between them, Totka spoke. “She was expecting someone. We should go.”
“I’ll trail her.” Tall Bull set onto her path of broken pasture. “To see that she does not raise an alarm.”
Totka whipped his gaze to his brother whose lips were beginning to curl.
“Not you,” Nokose said. “Totka, see it done.”
Totka adjusted the quiver on his back and did as his brother said.
~ ~ ~
Ten long strides inside the aromatic forest, Adela McGirth bent and propped herself against her knees, her feet sinking into the carpet of red pine needles.
Her mind swirled, unable to land on the moment things had gone wrong.
She’d been asleep. Then there was a horse—a terrified horse—and a native.
And blood!
Using the rag, she scrubbed at her chin and hairline and jerked with a tearless sob.
Indians, out of nowhere. Everywhere. A line of them! Behind, in front, on top.
Lungs heaving, she clutched at her corset. She’d done well to maintain a brisk walk clear to the tree line, but now she dragged in air as though she’d sprinted the distance.
Red Sticks. She panted through an open, cotton-dry mouth. Had to have been Red Sticks.
They wore the garb of traders, but she hadn’t been fooled. Every trader along this route knew to waylay at her mother’s table for turnip and rabbit stew. No, these were Red Sticks. The secrecy, the slivers of unease in the younger’s manner, the red club, the feather bound to a long, thin braid that sprouted from his cropped roach, the little voice inside telling her so—all indicators.
She fingered the scrap of wet cotton and went cold at the reminder of his proximity and her vulnerability.
Without consent, his image—the one emblazoned on the backside of her lids—swept up before her: narrow brows arched above almond-shaped eyes that subtly yielded to her probing; a crescent moon inked a patch of skin above one ear; a swirl of markings trailed his neck and disappeared beneath the wide, ruffled collar of his pale blue trade shirt; over his sleeves, a thick silver band nestled in the muscles of each upper arm; several arrows, held in a quiver invisible to her, fanned out to one side of his head.
And that feather. Blue-red. The color of fresh blood.
Except for the nick of a scar on his chin, his russet jaw had been so smooth Adela would have thought him a boy, but for his breadth and brawn.
Brawn indeed. She flipped her quaking hands before her, then probed her wrists. They prickled where he’d held them, but there was not a scratch or bruise to be felt.
Why hadn’t she been allowed up? “I know why,” she spat as she beat shreds of hay from her gown. They’d been hiding something, and it took little imagination to guess what. She would need to tell someone. Her father. And Captain Bailey—he would want to know. As would his younger brother Phillip.
Phillip!
Spinning back around and stretching on tiptoe, she looked out toward the darkening meadow. It was late—well beyond the agreed-upon hour. Had he come and gone? Surely, he would have called and she would have woken. Then again, she’d been oblivious to a column of Indians until she’d been practically under hoof.
Should she wait or go home as the native had instructed? Her family would be worrying by now—a well-placed fear. There were Red Sticks lurking about, for goodness’ sake. And Phillip might be out there, alone. What if he’d come across them? What if they hadn’t been as merciful to him as they’d been to her?
Her throat constricted, and for the first time that evening, tears threatened. “Oh God, keep him safe.”
Endless minutes passed as she waited, her dread growing with each jagged breath. Finally, the sun’s sharp beams dissolved, leaving their orange and purple reflection in the sky. Fireflies awoke and sprinkled the forest with their enchanting light.
From beyond the pasture, a wolf raised a long cry to the encroaching night. Another responded. They smelled blood and would get first pickings on the horse. Fright skittered down her backbone.
What was she still doing out there? Had she lost all reason? She lifted her skirt to avoid the prickly blackberry bushes hung heavy with fruit and sought out the slender trail leading home. Phillip would berate her for an imprudent child when he found out she’d waited for him in the dark. With Red Sticks and wolves on the prowl, no less. Her father would never let her leave the house again, and her mother . . . Well, her mother would not find out.
“Adela . . . Adela . . . ” Phillip’s voice rode on the breeze.
Her heart seized and then leapt. Haste sped her back through the underbrush. She burst onto the field at full speed and didn’t slow until she’d flattened herself against him. “Phillip! I waited so long. I-I thought ”
Laughing, he enveloped her in his arms and held tight. “Missed me that much did you?”
Face buried in his chest, she drank in the security of his touch.
“You’re shaking! Adela, what’s wrong?” He unpeeled her from himself and bent to look her in the face, then brushed strands of hair from her eyes and mouth. “Is that blood on your dress? Did you hurt yourself? What happened?”
“I thought you were dead. You took so long!”
“Dead? Why would you think that?” His incredulous laugh gushed warmth over her face. “I was busy. That’s all. There’s a list of things to do before I can leave in the morning. Even with Dixon’s help, I couldn’t get away any sooner.”
Head shaking, she swallowed to clear the knot in her throat. “There were Red Sticks.” The blustery weather compelled her to raise her voice.
“Where? Here?” His hand migrated to the hilt of the long knife in his belt, but his tone indicated he wasn’t convinced.
“Right here. In this field. But they’re gone now. At least I hope they are.”
“Red Sticks, are you sure? Have you ever seen one before?”
“Not until tonight.”
Lips balling, he studied her a moment. “Were they painted?”
“No war paint. They looked like . . . ” Heaven help her, she sounded unstable in the head. “Like hunters, no—traders. Only they weren’t. They were hiding something. Weapons, I think. They might have been muskets. Or maybe rifles.”
“You know the difference, Adela. Which was it?” He spoke slowly, softly.
“I don’t know, I . . . They wouldn’t let me see what they were doing.” She sucked in a quick breath to quell the frustration escalating her pitch. “They—he toppled me and ”
Phillip grasped her shoulder again. “You had contact with them? And here I’ve been thinking you were watching from the trees! He who?”
“The Red Stick! He kept me down so I couldn’t see, but I’m telling you ”
“On the ground? He kept you on the ground?” The fingers on her shoulder hardened, along with his voice. “Adela, did he . . . Did he violate you? If he so much as ”
“No! Thank God, no. He was . . . ” What was he? All things considered, he’d been gentle, except for the burn of his brown eyes, which had explored her mercilessly. Unabashedly.
Until near the end when, for whatever reason, he’d become flustered and ignored her as he might a dog at heel. Then, just when she’d figured him for a stone heart, he’d destroyed his shirt so she could clean herself. A strange, generous act.
She squeezed the wadded fabric inside her fist and recalled the rich, swarthy hue of his skin.
“He was what?” Phillip’s question snatched away the image.
“He wasn’t a bad man. At least not that I saw. But he was a Red Stick. They all were. And any one of them might have killed you had you come across them the way I did.” Blast the squeak in her voice! Where had her earlier bravado gone?
“Oh, sweet thing.” Phillip pulled her to him. His bear claw pendant dug into her breastbone, and the skirt of her gown billowed with wind. “I’m perfectly well, and there are no Red Sticks. Not for miles and miles. They’re too busy killing their own people to care about us. At least for the time being.” He cupped her cheeks and stroked downward with his thumbs. “And if it makes you feel better, an extra ship passed the British blockade this month. It docked in Mobile last week. So naturally, we’ll see an increase in traffic on the trade route.”
“Oh?”
“Some traders we won’t recognize, but that doesn’t mean we should label them Red Sticks.” He smiled. “All right?”
No, it wasn’t all right. But clearly, it would make no difference if she said so. She gave him the nod he wanted.
“Good. No more stories about lurking Indians or you’ll have the entire settlement up in arms. And you know it doesn’t take much to build a fire under some of these hotheaded farmers. They’ll sharpen their pitchforks and impale the first red man they come across, and before you know it, there really will be a fight on our hands.”
He had a point. Unless she was absolutely certain, she shouldn’t utter a peep. Was she absolutely certain? Until a few minutes ago, she had been, but now . . . “You’re right. I won’t say anything else about it.”
“That’s my sweetheart.” The whites of his eyes sparkled in the dusk. “Earning a commission will be tedious with you occupying so much of my mind. How will I last three months?”
She drew a deep breath and took his cue to change the subject to his upcoming commission in the standing militia. “What kind of nonsense is that? You’ll be in Milledgeville. I hardly think you’ll be pining for boring, old Tensaw.”
His full-mouthed grin charmed and inspired a smile of her own. He was the catch of Tensaw Settlement, and there were no other choices worth having. She was a lucky woman, or so she told herself. If only she could feel it deep down, where it mattered.
“I’ve waited all day to be with you.” He cradled the back of her neck and tipped her chin to meet her mouth. When he’d captured it, he attempted to entwine his fingers with hers but was met with her tight fist. He broke away and took her by the wrist. “What’s this?”
She cracked open her hand. “He gave it to me. To clean my face.”
“You mean the Indian? He gave you this? That’s . . . odd.” He heaved a sigh. “Red Sticks taking you down, a secret arsenal being transported through an open field in broad daylight, and now this.” He pinched a corner of it, whisked it from between the fissure of her fingers, and let the wind have it. It fluttered a few feet before it became hooked on the jagged top of a clump of broomsedge.
She stared after it.
He’d flung it away as readily as he had her terrifying experience. Lips drawn between clamped teeth, she withheld a protest. The ringing insect chorus of twilight filled her head.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
To hide welling tears, she rubbed her eyes. “I’m worn clean through.” Could he hear the thickening of her throat?
“Come here.” He tugged her elbow—once, twice: an invitation she refused. A gap ripped open between them until he loosed a conciliatory sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ve been an insensitive lout. Let’s not part this way. I love you, wild notions and all.” The smile in his voice didn’t lessen the sting. “Now, tell me you’ve changed your mind, that you’ll come with me to Savannah. It’s not too late.”
“Have you talked to Papa?”
“Well . . . not yet. But I will once I know you’ll say yes.” He traced a line across her forehead to keep hair from blowing into her eyes. “The minister’s back in the area. Staying over at Mims’ place I hear. If we got married first thing in the morning ”
“Tomorrow?” An abrupt laugh burst out of her. “And you say I have wild notions. You haven’t spoken to Papa about courting me, much less marriage. And there’s my sister. Did you forget how much she cares about you?”
Eight years earlier, during the annual social, Phillip had mounted a stool in the middle of the Mims’ great room and declared undying love for Elizabeth. She’d had eyes for no other since. Never mind he’d done it on a dare.
“You have to make your own choices. For you, not for your sister.”
“You don’t know how it is to be at odds with her.”
“She’d better get used to the idea, because it’s you I want. I want to build a home together, provide for you, give you beautiful things. We belong together, Adela. We always have.” Intense and unrelenting, he pressed his case, undaunted by the shake of her head and the inflexible hand she stationed between them.
“Stop. It’s too soon. I need time to ”
“Fine, fine. It was a crazy scheme, but worth asking. I can give you time.” He took her hand and laid it against his neck. Day-old whiskers stabbed at her fingertips. “But I’ll talk to your father in July, the very day I return. So you’d best prepare your sister.” He removed his pendant and laid the leather thong across her palm. “Wear it. Please.”
“Phillip, it was your grandfather’s! It’s too important to give away.”
“I’m not giving it away. You’re to be my wife. That means what’s mine is yours. I love you, Miss McGirth.” His husky voice rang with sincerity, longing.
She wanted to reply in fashion, but it caught in her throat. Instead, she slipped the thong over her head and took his hand. “Walk me home?”
“Always.” The smile returned to his voice as he squeezed her hand.
She reciprocated, warming at the feel of his calluses and the reminder that he was a good man, as his father had been, as his four brothers were—able frontiersmen who knew the meaning of hard work, dedication to family, and sacrifice. He was all she needed, and she was a fool to dither.
Come end of next month, she would be prepared. She would marry him. In the meantime, she would pray for peace.
A wolf bayed, followed by a chorus of replies. The pack was drawing near.
In response to her shiver, Phillip tightened his clasp on her hand and passed her a reassuring smile, invisible in the dark woods except for the glow of his teeth. He was truly all she needed.
They reached the McGirth yard, quiet now except for the yowl of a cat in the hayloft and her mare’s soft nicker. Phillip reached over the paddock rail and greeted Wind Chaser with his usual scratch beneath the forelock and murmur of affection. She returned it with her usual head-butt against his chest.
Adela grinned at the two. “I’m not sure which of us you love more.”
“I can remedy that.” He hopped down, descending on her before she knew what hit her. His mouth collided with hers, easing at her muffled grunt then regaining momentum, sucking the breath clean out of her.
Her knees weakened, but he was there, slipping an arm up her back and dragging her against him. In the momentary break, she hauled in air. “Phillip, you’re ”
“I know. I’m sorry.” His mouth landed again, more gently this time. “Just please . . . kiss me . . . ”
Arms dangling, she had yet to respond, but her mind was spinning too fast to keep up with him. This was new behavior—startling.
He spoke against her mouth, but it was garbled, and her ears were pounding with a heady rush of blood. Her mind told her to reciprocate, that he expected it and wouldn’t relent until she did, but she was inexperienced. Squelching insecurity, she commanded her hands to his shoulders and tried to sync her lips with his, to give back. His response was instantaneous, attentive, accommodating. He transformed from ravenous to doting, and her insides felt their first flutter.
She tightened her hold on him and pressed into the unknown like the frontierswoman she was.
Tamed, he heeded to her untried movements and took each one as though she were presenting him a gift.
But she had only so much to give, and when she expended her supply and pushed him back, he released her, albeit reluctantly.
“Two months, Adela,” he said between puffs of air, “and there will be no stopping.” He deposited another kiss, this one sweet. “Two months. Enough time for me to get my commission and for you to keep the blood-lusting savages at bay.”
She prickled, not sure which stung more—his blithe jest or his assessment of the natives.
“It sickens me to think one of them touched you,” he continued.
“He didn’t hurt me, and they don’t lust for blood. They aren’t savages.” At least not the ones she had encountered.
“Where’s this coming from, Adela? They are savages. Every last one of them, and as soon as you forget it, you’ll find yourself missing this handsome scalp of yours.” He waggled the braid draped down the front of her, and it resonated with a dull clunk against her collarbone.
But she hadn’t lost her scalp.
Her father had spent several years among the Creeks, and later, before Elizabeth came along, he and Mama had taken in a Creek orphan. Sanota had left them for his own people when Adela was still quite young, but he and Papa had taught her to respect the natives and their ways.
Phillip’s biased assessment of the Creeks scalded as did his lack of trust in her judgment. She was no silly female, and the Indians were not mindless beasts thirsting for carnage. A retort came to her tongue, but she bit it back, not willing to send him off on a sour note.
“I’ll remember,” she said. “Now off you go. Bring home another proud commission for the Bailey men.”
“And a ring for my darling girl.” With one last tender kiss, he said farewell and left her standing by the barn, flustered in more ways than one, although why she should take offense for the Creeks, she wasn’t sure.
They hadn’t deserved his censure. She’d been treated . . . strangely, yes, but with consideration. Didn’t the swatch of homespun prove it? If Phillip hadn’t tossed it out, she would hold it up to his retreating back as evidence. An insane compulsion to go after it took hold of her.
She could find it if she wanted—because she was smart and capable—even in the blinding darkness.
Her mind zipped to the lantern in the barn and the hatchet by the woodpile. She would go. For once in her life, she would be rash and imprudent. She would stand by her convictions, and when it came time to tell Elizabeth she’d lost Phillip, Adela would cling to that bit of fabric and remind herself she was brave.
She’d almost made it back to the glade, lantern lit and swaying before her, when a howl struck her ears like a club.
The wolves. She’d forgotten.
Spiders of fear scurried over her.
But the wolves were coming for the carcass, not her, and it lay on the opposite side of the meadow. Almost there, she couldn’t turn back. She tightened her hold on the hatchet and increased her stride, cutting through a sea of fireflies. Let no man call her a wilting violet.
At the northeastern border of her father’s land, she reached the forest’s edge and hesitated. The quarter moon presented precious little light, but all seemed still. A gust blew through the longleaf pines. It rustled the needles that towered above, creating a comforting, familiar whistle, then swept over and behind her as though nudging her into the dark, foreboding expanse.
In the meadow, the wind greeted her in its whipping embrace, tangling loose strands of hair about her neck. Despite the weather’s ravaging effects on the grass, she found the telltale streak of bent stalks with little effort. Papa would be proud.
Hurrying now, she followed the trail, sweeping the lantern out to the left until its beams illuminated the fabric flapping like a pennon on a lance. Beaming with self-satisfaction, she plucked it off the broomsedge, shoved it inside her bodice, and spun to find a set of glowing red eyes straight ahead.
Adela’s heart lurched. Cold fear swept over her.
Just within the outer ring of the lantern’s reach, a scraggly, black wolf stared at her, one paw raised, seeming as surprised to see her as she was it.
Two other sets of eyes joined the first.
What had she been thinking coming out here? She was going to die for an insignificant snippet of fabric. And a heaping portion of pride.
Options for escape raced through her head. Nothing to climb—the nearest trees stood on the other side of the beasts. Running was out of the question. One good bound, and they would be on her.
Unmoving, she prayed they would get a scent of that horse and remember what they’d come for. An explosion of wind caught the lantern and swung it on its hinges. Metal squealed and shuddered.
At the sound, the foremost animal jolted, crouched, and bared its teeth in a growl. The others mimicked it.
Adela eased the lantern to her feet, praying for all she was worth they would tire of the stand-off, but the alpha had other plans. At its first quick step, she widened her stance, limbered her knees, and double-palmed the hatchet. There was time enough for one good swing before being taken down. Focusing on the animal’s head, she timed her strike to coincide with its leap.
Directing her energy into aim instead of force, she loosed her coiled muscles. The crack of bone ricocheted up her arms as the wolf flew into her, knocking her over.
A sharp yelp split her ear. But it hadn’t come from the creature weighing her down. She climbed out from under the corpse and, hatched raised and ready, scrambled to her feet in time to see a black tail bounding away.
There had been three. The other one. Where was it?
She twisted at the waist looking for the ominous glow of its eyes, but saw nothing more than a golden ring of illuminated grass. Had it also figured her more of a fight than it was willing to give? Lord, please yes.
Near the outer reaches of light the grass had been disturbed, flattened. Shaking violently, she collected the lantern and inched her way toward the spot and came upon a pile of twitching fur and limbs.
A second wolf lay dead before her. A vibrating arrow protruded from its chest.
Dread poured through her veins like molten iron, hardening inside her limbs, solidifying her to the spot.
She wasn’t alone.
Had the natives come back for her? Stories abounded of white women being captured, although it had been many years since such a taking.
There was also the possibility they’d regretted letting her live.
They’re savages. Every last one of them. Her scalp tingled at the memory.
No, no. She shook her head to clear the panic. They weren’t savages. She wasn’t thinking clearly. They’d killed the wolf. Not her.
And this had been a perfect kill. Straight through the heart. Very little blood.
How close would a bowman have to be to make such a shot in this wind? Twenty feet? Thirty? As far as the trees? He could be anywhere outside of her perfect ring of light. Watching.
Protecting. Yes, protecting.
Relief overpowered her fear and reignited her heart.
Gulping through a dry throat, she neared the lantern to the arrow’s dyed fletching, four narrow black stripes on brilliant red. Brain whirring, she tried to reconcile the fletching with what her father had taught her about their Indian neighbors. Each warrior used distinct markings for his arrows. And these markings she recognized.
She’d had plenty of time to study them from her position beneath their owner.
He was near. Not in the trees, but close. She felt the scorch of his eye. If she swung the lantern in a circle about her, she might catch a gleam of his armbands or those silver ornaments dangling from his lobes.
The man’s voice rang through her mind—musical, rhythmic, pleasing to the ear.
But as placid as he’d been, she had no desire for another encounter.
Why he would still be there in the meadow—and why he would protect her—she could only guess. But did it matter? He was there, and he’d saved her from an awful mauling and certain death. An answer to prayer if ever there was one.
Fresh howls carried past on the wind, reminding her she had no business in that glade. She hurried past the wolf, brushing the soft fletching with her fingertips. Then she stopped. The man would come for his arrow. On impulse, she withdrew the embedded shaft then wiped it on the animal’s fur to clean it of gore.
Leaving it, she set her face toward home and didn’t look back.

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