Wind Dancer (3 page)

Clark took the letter, pried up the wax seal, and quickly scanned the document. Samuel watched as a broad grin split his commander's face, then grinned himself as Clark gripped the letter, shaking his head in obvious wonderment. It must be good news.

“The French have agreed to support us, Samuel. They are joining our side in the war.”

All the implications fell into place. They were about to take British forts inhabited by French citizens. Their job just got incredibly easier. Suddenly, it all seemed possible, what their commander in chief, George Washington, was doing back east and what they were about to attempt right here. The French were sending armies, trained armies, armies that had fought the British countless times over the centuries.

Armies that had won.

The darkening forest surrounded them, a living, breathing entity of creature noise and vegetation stirring, straining, it seemed, to snare them. Isabelle crouched down beside her brother, waiting and breathing in shallow gasps, buried almost in the dense underbrush. She watched the wind grow stronger with sudden gusts that sent showers of leaves twirling about them as it ripped summer's canopy from the branches overhead. Her gaze scanned the sky that was turning an eerie green. Tornado weather. Isabelle shivered, thinking of the one tornado she had ever seen. Of how her mother, her brother, and she had crouched down in the tiny, damp root cellar until it had passed.

There would be no hiding places here.

Their Indian guide stood a little away, motioning them to remain back and still. Isabelle watched Quiet Fox, watched the way he used every sense to assess their surroundings, to identify the cause of their uneasiness. They had all sensed it, that crawling sensation up the back of the spine that came with the sure feeling of being watched. And then they had heard a sound that
sent them scurrying to cover—a swishing of the brush nearby, as if someone had passed near them. A sudden flight of birds winging away to safety had only furthered their disquiet. With sudden movements of his hands and an intense look in his eyes, Quiet Fox had backed them into this copse, then padded a few steps away and turned, his lean body taut with tension, his nostrils flared, eyes darting everywhere.

Isabelle shivered, thinking she was glad to have him with them now. She looked up to the wind whipping through the trees overhead, where the leaves made a sound like rushing water, and found her heart pounding like that of a trapped animal. Yet she could find no evidence of danger aside from the possibility of a coming thunderstorm. Leaning toward her brother, she whispered, “Do you hear anything?”

He shook his head, frowning at her for talking, which made her want to argue that she was quieter and more attuned to the forest than he, but she restrained herself with a silent huff. Everyone knew that Julian was the dreamer, the poet and musician of the family, and that Isabelle could outshoot, outrun, and outhunt him any day of the week. But now wasn't the time to remind him of that. Now, what she wanted more than anything was to prove to Quiet Fox, her mother, and the others shaking their heads in worry about this excursion, that she could successfully complete this mission and bring the old priest's books to him in perfect condition. Or at least in whatever condition she found them.

Thinking of her mother gave her a slight pang in the stomach region. Isabelle wanted nothing more than to please her mother, but she could never seem to understand what it was her mother wanted. She remembered the night before they had left. She had plopped herself on Hope's featherbed with a pleased smile and asked, “You will really let me go,
Ma Mère
?”

Hope smiled back at her, fondness and disquiet in her eyes. “Yes, I have despaired of making anything but a woodsman out of you, so why shouldn't you tromp through the forest for a few weeks and see if you get your fill.” She shook her head. “For a time, at least.”

“I shan't be a woodsman, mother,” Isabelle corrected in annoyance. “I will be a
grande dame
in New Orleans and wear beautiful clothes and live in a fine house by the river with my handsome Spanish husband.”

Her mother laughed and stroked Isabelle's cheek, a softness in her eyes that now brought a lump of emotion to Isabelle's throat. “And will the
grande dame
trade her long rifle for a
guitare
and pluck away at the strings, entertaining your many guests?”

Isabelle grinned. “
Non
,
Ma Mère
. This
grande dame
will fence with her guests in the morning, hunt with them in the afternoon, and throw the most outrageous balls in the evening.”

“Oh, Isabelle, you are your father's daughter.”

“And Julian? Is he more like you?”

“I think he has some of both sides in him. My mother is a wonderful artist, but your father is a poet.” Hope shrugged. “I just hope he can keep up with you on the journey.”

“I was surprised you would let him go.”

The worried look increased in her mother's eyes, but she nodded firmly. “Yes, I surprised myself with that decision. But it will be good for him.”

Her mother trusted Isabelle to watch over Julian, which was why she had been able to relinquish him to the supposed dangers of such a journey. But this—this was real danger. And Isabelle was suddenly wondering whether the task was beyond her capability.

Quiet Fox was motioning them forward. They moved toward him, Isabelle intent on being as silent as any Indian she had ever met.

“
Nous continueraient à se déplacer
,” he whispered when they arrived at his side. They would keep moving.

“Have you seen nothing? Heard nothing?” Isabelle insisted.

“
Non
. We walk, but go around.” He motioned with his finger, around the clearing.

Isabelle nodded.

Quiet Fox moved out of the thicket, Isabelle and then Julian following close behind.

They were all tired, having hiked for two days in mud and muck with the heat and mosquitoes. They were tired enough that the marshy forest floor was looking as inviting as a featherbed, except now they were fueled with the inexplicable desire to put as much distance between them and this area as they could. They just didn't know why.

* * *

HEAT LIGHTNING PULSED bright behind dark, pregnant clouds while the air settled heavy and thick in Samuel's lungs. It was late afternoon and hot for a June day, leaving sweat marks on Samuel's white, linsey-woolsey shirt. He quickened his pace, making for a supposed farmhouse that one of the hunters they had captured last week told him about, just three miles from Kaskaskia, their first target.

A little later, hearing the distant rumble of thunder, his gaze swept the green tinged sky. No doubt about it—a thunderstorm was coming. He was walking in an open place, between one dark line of trees and another, scouting ahead of the army, per Clark's orders. He knew he should take cover, find shelter for the duration of the storm, but he wanted to reach the farmhouse on this side of the Kaskaskia River as soon as possible. It could be an invaluable place from which to launch
their attack and set up Clark's field headquarters. And it was up to him to find it.

With renewed energy that came from long experience of trusting his instincts, he lengthened his stride and picked up his pace. The wind kicked up and began to howl as a sudden downpour beat on Samuel's head. He stopped, glad for the relief from the intense heat. Lifting his face, he let the rain run down his head and shoulders, sweet tasting and clean. He set his rifle aside and stretched out his arms, letting the shower soak through his shirt, sticking to his chest and back, taking with it some of the sweat and grime of the last few miles.

As suddenly as it had started, the rain changed form, from a pleasant shower to cold, tiny, needle-sharp shards. His hair blew into his face, and he turned to face the gusting wind. A jagged streak of lightning cut through the sky. Thunder rolled close by, chasing the lightning's tail and announcing its proximity.

“Aaaagggghhhh!”

Samuel turned as a scream pierced the wet air. He changed directions, running toward the sound, then sank into the cover of the brush, creeping slowly forward, feeling the deep rumble of thunder echo inside his chest. He inched his way deeper into the wood. There, in the distance, he could just make out the dark outline of a smoldering tree. The lightning
had
been close. The curling smoke above the sycamore told him it must have caught some of the branches on fire but was quickly extinguished by the rain. As he inched closer, he began to make out excited voices. He stopped and listened, sure they hadn't heard him.

Leaning to see past a thorny bush, he heard the voice of a woman and the lower tones of men—two of them, he thought—but he couldn't make out their faces in the dim light. Creeping closer, he strained to hear what they were saying.

“That was close!
Mon Dieu
, Julian, did you see it?” A woman asked.

“Yes, of course I saw it. But must you scream? You fear so little, why must you fear thunderstorms so?” The man sounded irritated, and Samuel found himself grinning.

Another flash of lightning lit up the area, giving Samuel enough light to see three forms under low, leafy branches. An Indian stood off at a distance watching the sky, while a woman stood at the side of the other man, their backs hugging a short, fat tree. Moving closer still, he waited for more clues as to their identity before revealing himself. They might never be so honest as when being unknowingly watched.

“I'm not afraid,” she protested, “just startled is all. Why must you always exaggerate, Julian?”

The man called Julian huffed. “You were in mother's bed, hiding under the covers during the last storm. I saw you.”

“Spying were you? I might have known. And I wasn't hiding, I was … comforting mother. She was alone again; the storms bother her.”

“Yes, of course. It is mother who is afraid of thunder and lightning. Pray, forgive me, I should have known better.”

Samuel nearly chuckled aloud. He had enough siblings of his own to recognize this squabble.

The Indian spoke. “Enough.” He said it with quiet authority, and they both became silent until all Samuel could hear was the pelting of rain on leaves. The storm was diminishing, passing over like a great, dark bird.

A soft voice broke the silence. “I'm sorry, Julian. I
am
a little afraid of storms. I have never been cornered under a tree by lightning, at any rate.” There was a smile in her voice that warmed it.

“Yes, well, neither of us has been nearly struck by lightning. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as well. We were lucky, eh, Quiet Fox?”

The Indian grunted.

Samuel squatted in the brush, letting the rain drip from the brim of his hat onto his back. He supposed he should make his presence known, but he didn't want to get shot at. The Indian was alert and ready with his long rifle. Maybe he could circle around and come up from behind them. The rain would make enough noise to cover him. It was a better plan than just stepping out of the trees into the middle of an armed party.

He stood slightly and backed his way into a clear section of the forest floor. It didn't take long to silently tread around the threesome. When he came to the tree where the two were standing, he found that Julian had left his post beside the girl and had joined the Indian looking at the clouds. The girl—woman, he corrected himself, now seeing her shapely silhouette clearly against the tree trunk—was alone and digging through her pack. He inched forward, hoping to glimpse her face in the light of the blue-green sky that was growing brighter as the storm moved to the east.

A sudden gust of wind moved the branches overhead, letting a shaft of light fall to the wet ground. The woman looked up, her face wet and beautiful in the strange light. Then, for no reason he could imagine, she suddenly turned and looked straight into his eyes.

She yelled again—not with fear this time but with challenge.

Suddenly, shockingly, he found himself looking down the barrel of her long rifle.
Where did that come from?

“Come out, you skulking scourge,” the hellion shouted at him.

Slowly, with his hands raised in surrender, Samuel stepped out of the brush to find two more barrels pointing at him from
either side. If one of them fired, they would shoot his head clean off.

Samuel checked his irritation and controlled his facial expression. Carefully calm, he said, “I was walking by …” He looked into Isabelle's eyes, hardly believing this fierce creature with her wild, dark hair, long and swirling provocatively around her skirts, was the one he had just heard conversing with her brother. “I heard your cry—the lightning, I supposed—and came to investigate.”

Isabelle eyed him like he had never been looked at by a woman before. He found himself both repelled and fascinated. A sudden image of her fierce and in his bed flashed through his mind, leaving him feeling as if a fog had invaded his brain, placing him under some spell. Worse still, he didn't know what to do next. Frustrated, he shook his head to clear it. Such things never happened to him.

“Come closer.”

Was her voice huskier? Was she weaving a magic he was hopeless to resist? It made him angry and determined—to do
what,
he didn't know—but he found himself obeying, walking slowly up to her.

* * *

ISABELLE TOOK A deep breath as the man walked toward her. An odd sense of familiarity slammed through her as he moved out of the shadows. It was as though he was walking out of the pages of history. Yes, that was it, he was like a knight of old, or what she had always imagined one would be, except he was clothed in frontiersman's garb. A poem she had memorized flashed through her mind as she stared at him, unable to look
away. She recalled the lines, speaking them just under her breath in smiling admiration.

“Are you mumbling, miss?”

Surfacing back to the real world, where this man could be a threat, Isabelle scowled at him. “Where are you heading?” she demanded instead of answering, rifle trained on his heart.