A Bride Most Begrudging (42 page)

She snatched it from Sally’s hands. The child gasped and stumbled backward, her lower lip quivering. But Constance merely spun and raced away. Away from the cottage. Away from the seedbed. Away from Drew.

For nothing would she slow. Not for the sharp stitch in her side, not for the tearing flesh on the bottoms of her feet, not for the nausea swimming in her stomach. She noticed not the blooming dogwoods, the colorful phlox sprinkled alongside the path, nor the stillness of the forest. She simply plunged forward, eyes straight ahead.

She heard the creek before she smelled it, smelled it before she saw it, and then she was there, racing toward it. With legs whizzing over the ground beneath her, she cranked her hand back, squeezed the diary tight, then launched it through the air.

The momentum of her action slammed her to her knees. With nothing short of sheer determination, she caught herself on her hands, never losing eye contact with her journal as it arched above the water then somersaulted into it with a splash.

Sunning turtles slipped from their logs. Unsuspecting ducks squawked and flapped their wings, painting ribbons of water in their wake. The
Ladies’ Mathematical Diary: A Woman’s Almanac Adapted for the Use and Diversion of the Fair-Sex
bobbed to the surface before swirling downstream.

Constance stayed on her hands and knees watching until it turned from a booklet, to a speck in the distance, to nothing. Then she curled up into a ball and wept.

————

Drew worked like a man possessed, driving his brother and the other men with excessive pressure. They tore open crates, unloaded furniture, and hauled it into the house. But the satisfaction, the fulfillment, the exultation he had expected to accompany this moment were sorely lacking.

In their place was mirthless, pathetic dejection. He cared not about the superior craftsmanship of the pieces they unloaded. He cared not if any had been damaged during their shipment. He cared not if he even had furniture.

Sunlight poured through the huge diamond-paned windows, exposing a jumble of chairs, tables, and assorted pieces crowding the great room. The men jostled about, lugging bits of a bed abovestairs, stacking chests against the walls, fitting drawers into an elaborate secretary, none of them talking, none of them exhibiting the relaxed air that usually permeated the atmosphere.

Drew gave Josh a nod, then moved back outside to the few unopened crates remaining. The physical demands of tearing open wooden boxes suited his mood. Picking up the pry bar, he wedged it into a seam.

Connie’s reaction to his words had surprised him. Shock, acute anguish, then blazing anger had played across her features in a matter of seconds. He’d realized immediately she’d misinterpreted his words. Typical of a woman.

He didn’t mean he thought her
unworthy
of bearing his children, only that it was
unwise
. Yet he chose not to clarify his statement. Let her think what she would.

As strong-willed as she was, any crack he revealed in his defenses would soon be a huge crevice if she discovered it. No, it was best to let her think the worst.

The crate resisted his efforts to open it. Cursing, he moved the bar down to another point in the seam. The rest of the furniture should be in the house well before sunset. As soon as the job was done, he’d walk over to the public warehouse and see how the loading of tobacco progressed.

They’d spent the last week rolling their many hogsheads there and collecting the crates of furniture. With no animals for pulling, the transfer of crates over the pock-ridden terrain had been long and arduous, with Drew, Josh, and the men all dragging borrowed flatbed wagons back and forth more times than he cared to remember.

He’d decided that would be the last time he did any dragging of that magnitude. He would have a couple of extra weeks before planting commenced, and he’d use those weeks to build himself a dock right at the bottom of the slope here.

A tight bubble formed in his stomach, growing larger and larger while he tried to dismiss the fact that Connie would be gone and would never see his new dock, nor anything else, for that matter.

He glanced up, the Indian boy’s rapid approach giving him pause. The boy had filled out since he last saw him, his arms and chest taking on a more refined edge. But that wasn’t what held his attention.

It was the manner in which the boy approached. Ordinarily, he stood at the perimeter of the yard and waited until he was noticed.

Of their own volition, Drew’s feet moved toward the Indian, each step quicker than the next until he matched the boy’s hurried lope. They met halfway. “What is it?” Drew asked in the native tongue.

The young warrior hadn’t yet learned to guise his emotions as well as his adult counterparts. Still, it was hard to decipher other than the fact that the boy was troubled, maybe even torn.

“What?” Drew repeated.

The boy’s nostrils flared with each rapid intake of breath. His lips thinned. “My leader, Opechancanough, grows old. And with age, so grows his bitterness. He speaks with great hatred for the white planters as they turn ancestral land into sot weed. Again and again Powhatans die from white man’s disease and from white man’s anger.”

A shadow of alarm touched Drew as he translated the words within his mind. “White man’s anger? Someone has died from white man’s anger?”

A steely light entered the boy’s eyes. “One of my brothers take ground nuts and tuckahoe from land once ours but now claimed by your John Emmett.”

Unease swept through Drew. “And did Emmett detain the next available Indian for the paying of compensation as agreed upon between your chief and mine?”

The young warrior’s jaw tensed. “John Emmett killed the next Powhatan he see.”

Needlelike pricks spread from Drew’s scalp to his toes. “Sweet, merciful God.”

“Opechancanough set forth big plan. My brothers fan out through our overtaken land and approach the white planter with no weapons or war paint. Upon entry into the homes, they attack with whatever implement at hand, slaying all, then burning their dwellings with the dead and wounded inside.”

Drew’s heart slammed within his ribcage, then accelerated in tempo, each beat faster and harder than the next. “When?”

“Now.”

No!
Panic surged through him, gnawing at his throat. He grasped the boy’s forearm, squeezing.
“My wife?”

“You must go to her. Quickly. My brothers move toward there even now.”

Drew whirled around, barreling up the hill toward the big house.

“White Coon?” the youth called after him.

Drew spun back to the boy, his chest heaving.

“We are enemies,” the young warrior said in his guttural language. “If we meet again, it will mean death for one of us.”

Drew nodded. “So be it. And thank you.” Turning his back again, he sprinted to the house.

————

“Josh!
Joooosh!
”

His brother and the other men poured out the front door.

“
Indian attack
! Quickly, to Grandma and Nellie!”

Without another word, Josh grabbed a pry bar and raced toward his sister’s home.

“Thomas! Take two men and get to the public warehouses! Hurry!” He tossed the remaining men pry bars, hammers, and anything else he’d happened to grab on his flight up the slope. “Isaac, sound a warning to the east!”

Isaac caught a hammer and headed out with a companion.

“You two, to the west! And make haste! There’s not a moment to spare!”

No one asked him how he knew, no one asked him for details—they simply took the orders and executed them.

Denouncing himself a fool for having no guns in the new house, he clutched the remaining pry bar in his hand and outstripped the wind in an effort to reach Connie and Sally. He leapt over tree roots, plowed through overgrown brush that whipped against his legs, arms and face and focused on reaching the cottage rather than on what might take place if he were too late.

Please, God, please. Let me not be too late!

The distance between the big house and the cottage had never seemed so far. He pushed himself even harder, unaware of the protests his body made.

He was closer now and neither saw nor smelled smoke. A good sign.
Please, God, please. Let me not be too late!

Pebbles sprayed from beneath his boots, sweat plastered his shirt to his chest, his hair fell loose from its leather binding.
Almost there, God. Almost there. Hold on, Connie!
He accelerated, thoughts of Connie and brutal Indians consuming his mind.

Just one more bend
. He made no effort to disguise his approach but exploded into the clearing, a bloodcurdling scream on his lips as he sighted the Powhatan ready to torch his cottage.

He rushed the Indian, driving the pry bar against the warrior’s wrist, sending the torch flying. Drew followed the lever’s momentum, whirling around with it full circle before slamming it into the Indian’s head. The pry bar swung from Drew’s grasp upon contact, shooting white heat up his arm.

The Powhatan careened and then fell to the ground. Drew checked his temptation to run into the cottage, forcing himself to first make sure the Powhatan would not rise again. He reached down for the Indian’s neck. The warrior’s arm flashed up, grabbing Drew, kicking him, and tossing him backward before he had a chance to react.

Then the Indian was there, on top of him, encircling his throat with a vengeance. Drew butted the Powhatan’s arms. The pressure against his throat increased.

He clawed at the Powhatan’s face, flesh collecting beneath his nails. The pressure increased.

The warrior’s tight-lipped grimace hovering above him faded in and out of view. Drew gasped for breath. His ears began to ring.

He was going to die.
Connie! Sally!
No. Not yet. He couldn’t die yet. He had to breathe.
God, help me! Help me!

The crackling of the fiery torch penetrated the fog within his brain. The torch. The torch. The fire from the torch. He could hear it. Feel it. Almost taste it upon his lips.

Drew flailed his legs. Bucked his hips. And with supreme effort, rolled to the left, reversing positions with the Indian while plunging his enemy into the spreading fire.

The viselike grip around his neck loosened only slightly, and Drew sucked in a trickle of air while driving his knee into the Indian’s chest and yanking against the warrior’s wrists. The acrid smell of singed flesh teased his impoverished lungs. The sizzling of human skin resounded in his ears.

The Powhatan acknowledged none of it. Drew sucked in another paltry breath. He couldn’t begin to imagine the torment the Indian must be undergoing. Even Drew’s own body smoldered from the searing heat. The warrior held firm to Drew’s neck, though, glaring at him and squeezing, tighter, tighter. Apprehension twisted within him. What manner of man was this?
Let go, you fiend!

The Indian dug his nails into Drew’s neck, then shoved him back and off. They broke apart, bounding to their feet, channeling their focus onto each other instead of the torturous pain racking their bodies.

Drew circled to the left. The Powhatan mirrored his moves, a slow, satisfied smile creeping onto his face. If it came down to a bare-handed struggle, Drew would die. And they both knew it.

Drew’s gaze swept the area where the pry bar had fallen, then quickly returned to track the Powhatan. The pry bar would be of no use. It now lay in the midst of the spreading fire, flames engulfing it. A trail of flames tickled the base of the cottage. He must kill the Indian before the fire reached the thatch roof or all would be lost.

The Powhatan lunged, making a swipe at him. Drew jumped back and free. He glanced at the ax buried in the tree stump. The Indian saw it as well. The Indian was closer—just barely.

They both broke and ran for it, but Drew detoured, snatching up the new hickory handle he’d been whittling, which was still a good six feet long and stood propped against the mulberry tree.

The Powhatan whirled to face Drew with the ax. Drew rested on the balls of his feet, bending his knees and facing the Indian with a hickory handle turned quarterstaff. The Indian smiled, swirling the ax above his head, then tossing it from hand to hand.

Drew cocked a brow, spinning the quarterstaff within his grasp. An earsplitting shriek pierced the air as the Indian rushed Drew with an overhead swing of the ax.

Drew swept his quarterstaff up with both hands, blocking the half-moon slash toward his head. The moment the ax handle connected with his dense pole, he jerked the staff backward, whipping the ax out of the warrior’s hands to fly harmlessly behind his own back.

In less than a heartbeat, Drew snapped his right hand forward, slamming the right butt of the staff into the Powhatan’s left temple, stunning him. Capitalizing on his advantage, Drew dropped to his left knee, sweeping the quarterstaff behind the warrior’s knees, knocking him off his feet and hard onto his raw back.

He heard the Powhatan’s breath rush from his body and followed up with a sharp jab, thrusting the end of his staff into the Indian’s throat, crushing his voice box.

Drew jumped back. The Indian’s eyes bugged. He clawed frantically at his throat, rolling onto hands and knees while he choked. Drew dropped his weapon and grabbed the warrior by his hair, jerking him to his knees. The Indian grasped Drew’s arms, but the pressure behind his grip faded even as he made contact.

With the same detached passion he used to destroy wild game, Drew placed the Indian in a headlock and snapped his neck, dropping the Powhatan’s lifeless body onto his face in the settling dirt.

He knew he’d wrestle with it later, but there was no time to think of what he’d just done. Flames now licked two sides of the cottage. He had to get in there. Now.

He didn’t allow himself to hesitate. But he knew. Before the end of his struggle with the Indian, he knew. Knew what he would find once he set foot inside that cottage. For if anyone had still been alive, they would have come outside to assist him in destroying the enemy. But maybe, just maybe in the Indian’s rush to move on to his next prey, he had merely knocked them unconscious.