Wind Dancer (21 page)

Samuel crouched low over his fire pit, taking in the last embers of warmth before dawn arrived and commanded that he move. He hadn't really needed the fire on this warm summer's night, but he had needed reassurance of his self-sufficiency.

A doe was stretched by his right hand, like the last time, except that this doe lay in green grass instead of the brown leaves of autumn. And this time he didn't wake to shrill war cries; there would be no running for a fort with the will and the way to bring them sustenance. No, the good citizens of Kaskaskia would hardly notice his addition to their stores. And the biggest difference was that this time he was running from something far more daunting than an Indian scalping: the memory of a wife he never really knew.

He sat back on the ground, his arms loosely crossed over his knees, laughing at his paltry attempts to be somebody, to recreate a moment in time when he thought he was special. He pulled the necklace out of his shirt and stared at it, hating it but knowing that something in him wanted to keep it close against the warmth of his bare chest.

He studied the trinket, the little indented outline that some silversmith had labored over to effect its particular sparkle. It was a pretty little piece, or so he'd thought when he had seen it in a jewelry shop and bought it as a wedding gift for Sara. He turned it over and saw that it had become tarnished. Probably from all the moisture he'd exposed it to. He huffed with a laugh at that thought. The piece certainly hadn't been created with thought of a soldier's wearing it.

He growled, then looked up. “What do you want from me?” He posed the question to God, to the sky, to the trees and the forest animals. Then he said it again, lower and fierce, this time to his father and his family and his dead wife. “What do you want from me?” He leaned his forehead against his crossed arms and just breathed.

“Nothing feels right anymore,” he whispered. “Not going home, not staying here with Clark, not homesteading in Kentucky …”

He thought of Isabelle, saw her as she'd been when he first met her, her rifle trained at his chest, her dark eyes flashing fire at him. He smiled, then laughed aloud, throwing his head back. He'd never met a woman more sure of who she was.

He closed his eyes and saw the wolf charging her, saw her dancing under the moonlight, and the heaving dance-like movement when she'd thrust the dagger in the wolf's belly. He gasped, finding tears in his eyes.

Here was one who didn't need him.

Then he saw her broken at the Shawnee camp, collapsed at her brother's stake, rubbing ashes in that foreign but lovely dress, turning it gray and not caring, daring them to do something about it, do something with her. And they had. Not immediately. No, they had staged a long campaign, longing to rein in that spirit inside her. The Shawnee had been patient conquerors.

He remembered the time in camp when he'd called out to her and she hadn't seemed, at first, to remember her name, as if she had begun to forget who she was.

Samuel's face stilled as a single tear slid down his cheek. He hadn't been able to save her then either. Why? God, why? He was Samuel Holt, frontiersmen, sharpshooter, soldier, as strong and capable as men came. He was one of the famed Long Knives.
God, why couldn't I save her from that?

He grasped hold of the necklace and, with a mighty jerk, tore it from his neck. He held it out, looking at the dangling sliver of moon, as thin as Sara's life had been.

“Why did she have to die?” He dropped his head to his knees, weeping as he never had. “I should have been able to do something. Why didn't
You
do something?”

And there it was: blame. He looked up, his heart pausing at the realization that he had been blaming God. He had spent his entire adult life making himself strong because he no longer believed God was capable.

He exhaled sharply with the knowledge of it. A Scripture came to mind, from his church days, something that hadn't meant anything to him at the time.

Where You are weak, I am strong.

The words reverberated through his mind and his heart.

“I am weak,” he cried out, his face lifted toward heaven.

“I am so weak.”

Then I am so strong. I AM.

The words breathed over him like a bath, like a baptism, seeping into every pore.

Samuel shook and sank to his knees before his paltry fire pit. “I'm sorry I blamed you.”

I'm not.

He heard it again! As plain and as loud as the approaching daylight. He felt completely engulfed in a feeling of love and acceptance.

Looking down at the necklace in his hand, he raised it up to heaven in offering. The pendant swung in the misty light of dawn, the silver glinting, the cord broken. He stood. Braced his legs. Pulled back his arm. The air swooshed around him as he heaved it into the sky. The necklace twisted and turned, the moon flat and glinting in a single shaft of light. Then it fell, far away and into its own grave, a leftover crumb of a funeral supper.

“It is finished,” Samuel breathed, watching it disappear, and knowing it was so.

* * *

IT WAS NIGHT. The night before they were to go back to Vincennes with Isabelle and the books. Such costly books. Some small part of Hope held a bitterness that said she hoped the books were worth it. She hoped they lasted the priest until the end of his days, bringing him as much joy as her son would have brought her.

* * *

ADAM WATCHED FROM just inside the front door as Hope sank down onto a chair on the front porch of the hotel where they each had a room. Her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs, and he wrestled with going to her or leaving her alone. He reached for the doorknob. She turned as the door opened and creaked.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you.” Adam made to go back inside.

“No, please.” Hope patted the arm of the chair next to her. “Bear me company.”

Adam nodded once and crossed the wide wooden planks of the porch. He sank down into the chair beside her, his knees creaking too, feeling that he was getting older, that a good part of his life was past and spent. He didn't know what to say to Hope. He didn't have a wife or children—only a dream of her and hers. How did one comfort a mother who had lost a son?

Hope reached over and clasped his hand, their intertwined fingers hanging between the two chairs, feeling so right. Now that she'd reached out to him, he didn't know how he was going to let go again.

They sat in silence for long moments, looking out at the silent town, each taking quiet comfort in the nearness of the other. Adam turned his head and stared at her, wanting to memorize this moment for all the moments to come in his life. Her profile was lovely, hair pulled back like a frame. Her cheeks were a gentle swell against the night, her lips lightly held together, her eyes still wet with tears. She was a picture of grace and calm. How that could be only added to her mystery. She was, and would ever be, Hope.

She turned and looked at him, a sad smile on her lips. “Thank you, Adam.”

Adam exhaled. “There's nothing to thank me for.”

“Yes. Yes, there is. I wouldn't have been able to do this, to get through this, without you.”

They gazed long at each other, sharing the pain, the connection between the past and all that had been and the future and all that would never be.

“Hope.” He paused. Was it time to say it? Would there ever be a better time than now? “You know I love you.”

Fresh tears sprung into Hope's eyes as she gazed into his. It was dark, but her eyes glistened like diamonds, like a million
glittering pieces. “I know.” She blinked, and a single tear slid down her cheek.

Adam leaned toward her, wiped the tear away with his thumb. He took a deep breath, words tumbling out that he hadn't planned, words of desperation. “You could leave him. We could go somewhere. Start over together.”

Hope laughed, a mixed bitter-sad and fearful laugh. “I've thought of it. Don't think I haven't. But he is my husband. I won't be the one to leave.”

Adam leaned in further, took her face between his strong hands. “We've waited so long. He'll never leave you. Hope … please. I can't go on seeing you and not having you at my side.”

“God will see us through this. I can't leave him. It is not right.”

Adam leaned closer to kiss her.

She pulled back with a gasp. “No.” She stood up. “I'm sorry… . If you have to do something, if you need to leave without me, I would never blame you for it. It might make it easier for both of us. You need to find a woman of your own.” She backed away from the temptation, clasped her hands together and squeezed, her knuckles turning white. “Adam, you have to let me go.”

She turned and left him alone on the porch with a freshly broken heart, one of a hundred such moments he'd felt with her. One of a thousand. Adam looked up toward heaven. “You would think it would be that easy,” he whispered, “but I can't do it.”

“I will wait.”

* * *

SAMUEL WOKE WITH a start. Excitement filled him as it did when he'd had a dream about some future world, knowing that
something grand and unfathomable was coming. He climbed out of bed, slipped into his breeches, and ran his fingers through his long hair. It was time to get a haircut.

Taking a long drink of water, he peered into the small mirror in his room in the commander's offices. He needed a shave and maybe some new clothes, he thought with a laugh as he looked down at the grimy clothes he was wearing. It was a new day, a day to tell Isabelle he'd thrown away the necklace, a day to look his best. With that thought in mind, he scraped some coins off the bureau and headed out into the bright sunlight, toward the apothecary, a man who purportedly could do wonders with shears.

He walked down the dirt street, to the door with the medicine-bottle sign swinging in the breeze above it. He stepped inside, the musty smell of the place hitting him in the face. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

“Anybody here?”

A man came out of the back, round around the middle with a jolly-looking face. “What can I do for you, monsieur?”

“I'm looking for a haircut. Maybe a good shave.” Samuel ran his hand across his prickly chin. “I heard this was the place.”

“
Oui, oui
. Sit, and we will see what we can do, monsieur.”

Samuel sat in a chair by the window, closed his eyes, and felt the long drape of a sheet being wrapped around him, his hair being pulled free of the collar. “You want it short?” the Frenchman asked.

Samuel looked into the mirror opposite. “Just a trim. Leave it a little long.”

The man bent to his work, the
snip-snip
of the scissors working quickly on Samuel's mane.

“You are one of the soldiers, yes? The Americans?”

“Yes.”

He hoped this wasn't the wrong answer as the man brought out a straight-edge razor. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

But the man was nothing if not efficient. A hot towel was placed over his face, and Samuel gradually relaxed his tensed muscles, almost falling asleep in the chair. The shave took only moments.

Then a comb was run through his hair again, and a mirror thrust into his hand.

“You like, eh?”

Samuel stared at his reflection in the mirror. He smiled a little. Truly, he looked a new man. A new man for a new day. Today he would ask her. He would ask Isabelle to be his wife. Now for some new clothes.

He handed the man some coins and headed for the trading post. There he pawed through cotton, linen, and buckskin. He finally settled on some fancy buckskin leggings and a loose-fitting shirt that tied at the throat with long, flowing sleeves.

He stepped out the door and swallowed hard. He hadn't felt this nervous on his wedding day! Slapping his hat on his head, Samuel grinned at himself and started for the hotel where his gypsy bride awaited him.

Samuel made his way across the dusty street of Kaskaskia, hoping Clark wouldn't see him and tease him unmercifully about his new getup. He reached the hotel in no time and pulled open the front door.

At a long counter, he cleared his throat. “I'm looking for the Renoirs. Isabelle Renoir. Is she here?”

The man behind the counter stared at him from little eyes, squinting up from his paper. “The Renoirs? They left about an hour ago. Gone back to Vincennes with the books, you see.”

Left? He stared hard at the man. “They left for Vincennes already?”

The man nodded his head. “About an hour ago. They seemed eager to begin the trip home.”

“Were they riding?”

The man nodded. “I think they had two horses. One for the books and the other,” he paused and shrugged, “maybe for the women to take turns riding.”

Samuel stomped from the room. He had missed them! He couldn't believe it. Isabelle had left and hadn't even bothered to say good-bye.

He practically ran to the town stable, digging into his haversack for some money. Did he have on him enough for a horse? No. He'd spent his last bit of silver on clothes, trying to impress her. He turned and ran back to his room at the American offices. Perhaps he could still catch them and be back before his absence was noticed.

In his room he retrieved the worn saddlebag that he always kept with him. Inside was money. Lots of it. He spilled out the coins. He'd never even counted it. Never touched it. He had never told another soul that when he left home his father had given him his inheritance in gold. He hadn't wanted it at the time, had never tapped into it, satisfied with a soldier's grassy bed and slim rations. But there it was, glittering back at him, a small fortune at his disposal. He could have gone anywhere. He could have been anyone with this kind of money. But all he'd wanted was to prove himself.

But now, aside from this trove, he was broke. If he was going to go after Isabelle, he would have to use some of it to buy a horse. He reached for a coin, felt the hard edges of it slide through his fingers. What good was it, he reasoned, if he couldn't use it when he needed it most? He wrestled with his pride and his guilt as he stuffed the golden coins into his sack. Had he thought the Shawnee would accept it, he would have used the money to ransom Isabelle. But this money represented a life he had scorned, the work of a man he hadn't respected or acknowledged.

Back at the stable he paid for the best and fastest horse, not caring that the man was taking advantage of his obvious rush by charging twice what the horse was worth. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered beyond finding
her
.

He mounted, feeling the fight of a new kind of battle rise within him.

Isabelle. Come back to me.

He rode out fast and hard, barely registering the greeting of a few fellow soldiers. He didn't spare them a glance. Samuel made for the woods. And Vincennes.

* * *

“ISABELLE?” HER MOTHER said for the third time, a worried look in her eyes.

Isabelle roused enough to turn toward her mother. Hope was riding the horse with the books, a solid, slow-moving character named Blacky, while Isabelle rode a light-brown beauty with quick-stepping ways. Adam walked beside them, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he pushed through the brush for them.

“I'm sorry.” Isabelle gave her mother a halfhearted smile. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you were hungry.” Hope looked at her in concern. “Should we stop for a noon meal?”

Isabelle shrugged. Food was the last thing on her mind. “If you wish,” she managed. “I could eat a little.” She couldn't really. But she would try, for Hope's sake, so that her mother wouldn't worry so much.

Everything was different now. Hope was still her mother … and yet she was a different daughter somehow. She knew deep within her that if Adam and Hope suddenly disappeared, evaporated into some dream or nightmare even, that she could travel this road alone. She was bereft, but a woman bereft had strengths. A woman bereft no longer loved her own life.

Oh, Samuel.

Had he noticed they were gone? What would he think when he heard the news? Would he care?

Her lips compressed as she remembered him clinging to that necklace around his throat. He had his own choices to make. And from all appearances, he'd chosen his secrets over her. Chosen a silver moon that was flat and small over a full-blooded woman who danced in moonlight. She hoped he would be happy with the cold feel of it against his chest each night.

She would have given him everything—her heart, her heat, her life. But he hadn't been able to reach out and take it. So she departed for Vincennes and the hopes of some other future that only God had full knowledge of.

* * *

IN THE DISTANCE Samuel saw a waving of weeds, fresh tracks all around in the soft earth. Then he heard them. They were loud and being none too careful, making him clench his teeth together. Had she learned nothing from the Shawnee?

“You shouldn't say such a thing, Isabelle!”

“And why not? You know it is true.”

They were discussing Joseph Renoir, Isabelle's father. Samuel had only heard bits and pieces about the man. He stopped, quieting his horse, thinking that he sure would like to learn more.

“He is your father. You must honor that, even through his weaknesses. We all have them.”

Samuel had edged close enough to see Isabelle look at her mother with fire spitting from her eyes. “Tell me why you married him.”

Hope paused and sighed heavily, looking away from both Isabelle and Adam, into the woods. “He made me believe in rainbows.”

“Rainbows?” Isabelle scoffed. “What does that mean?”

Hope shook her head, looking down at the horse's ears. “I don't know what it means,” she said softly. “I suppose he made me believe that anything was possible. He was my grand adventure.” She turned slowly to Isabelle. “You may think I'm just an old woman, just your mother, but there was a time, my dear, when I wanted adventure too.”

Isabelle just stared.

“And you may believe you are your father's child through and through, but you are very much like I was as a girl.”

Isabelle shook her head in disbelief. “Really?”

Hope laughed a small laugh. “Yes, really. Marrying your father was like running away with the circus. Do you think my parents were happy about it? He was foreign, strange to them, and so volatile. They foresaw the life I would live. But all I saw was … a grand adventure.”

Adam remained quiet but alert, hearing the answers to questions he'd had for years. Isabelle just looked stunned.

Samuel did his best to remain close but quiet, wanting to see this scene played out until its end. Sometimes being a trained spy came in handy.

There was a long, pregnant pause as they each pondered what Hope had revealed. Then with sudden intensity Isabelle asked, “Do you think it is the same with Samuel? Was he only some grand adventure that I wanted?”

Hope turned and reached out to touch Isabelle's shoulder, a picture of comfort. “I can't answer that for certain … but I can say that Samuel reminds me more of Adam than your father.”

Adam turned at that. He stared hard into Hope's eyes, and for a moment Samuel read all the pain and loss and yearning that they had for each other.

Hope had married the wrong man.

Just as he had done, marrying the wrong woman.

Samuel looked down at the animal he rode and let the thought settle on him. Logically he had to wonder if Hope would have even met Adam had she not married Joseph. After all, Joseph was the one who'd brought them to this territory. And Adam? He didn't know his story, but it seemed the man had been in Vincennes his whole life. “So how,” he looked up and questioned, “could she meet the man she was supposed to be with, without marrying Joseph.”

My ways are not your ways.

He heard the quiet words, words from Scripture that had been read aloud when he was a lad in church. He hadn't picked up a Bible since he left home, yet some phrases of it seemed to stick with him, rising up as this one did when he least expected it.

“What are Your ways?” he asked as his horse snorted and puffed and seemed to want to move forward. He pulled lightly at the reins, knowing he needed this answer before he could move on, move forward with Isabelle. What if he was only an adventure to her? What if she tired of him? He could never imagine this woman in a cabin in the wilderness bearing his children and looking after the next meal. No, a woman like Isabelle would mean
many
adventures. And he would need to be willing and able to provide and allow them. He wouldn't be marrying a woman who would be content as a wife and mother. And he would have to go into that marriage prepared and determined—yes, determined—that she got that life. He would have to become the protector of it, guarding it and sanctioning it.

He heaved a breath, seeing it so clearly.

He might be her way. But her way in this life might mean his being the one to lay down his life for her. Because, quite simply, her life might be the one that mattered more in the grand scheme of things.

It was a hard truth. Almost impossible in the time they lived in, and he recognized that in his visions of the future he had felt there was less difference between men and women, and he realized that this may be why he'd been given those dreams.

A part of him rose up and said no. He was a man, strong and sure himself! He didn't need a woman to make him into something. He was something all on his own. Just look at what he had done and what he would yet accomplish. Sara wouldn't have demanded this of him. Sara would have, eventually, loved him and bore him children and lived the quiet woman life that his mother and sisters lived.

But he'd abhorred that.

God. Why? Why show me this?

My ways are not your ways.

It was all he could hear. And he didn't want to hear it. Yet something in him knew it to be true. The prophets of old asked for the scales to fall from their eyes. But seeing eyes, truth-seeing eyes, cut to the core and left one gasping for breath. But the scales had dropped from his eyes onto the muddy path where he stood, and he couldn't put them back.

Isabelle was his grand future. His dying-flesh death was her life. And for some reason the future depended on her being able to do something—something no one but she could do. And he would have to hold her up because there would be times coming when it would be too much for Isabelle to bear alone, she would need him to complete her destiny.

He breathed with the truth of it, coming to terms with it. Breathing in the peace that came with acceptance. Sara and their children would have been a shadow life. Isabelle was full color, full blown. Pain. Ecstasy. Life. Their purposed life. Together.

* * *

“I THINK SOMEONE is following us,” Isabelle whispered to her mother.

Hope turned in her saddle, fear on her face. “Where? Are you sure?”

“No, I'm not sure. I just have that feeling. And I think I heard something.”

Isabelle turned in her saddle and peered into the forest.

“Samuel?” she said as he rode out of the trees, looking like he had something on his mind.