Wind Dancer (5 page)

Before he had time to respond, she had backed out of his arms. “He came out of nowhere. Did you see any others?”

Samuel looked down at the wolf. It was large and so gray that it appeared black against the dark ground. Its eyes were open and glassy. Pulling himself from the haze this woman held him in, he looked to the dark tree line where the wolf had entered the clearing. A frown creased his brow. Where
had
the wolf come from? It was strange to see one alone and attacking boldly like that. It didn't look particularly hungry either; it was large and well fed. A strange feeling assailed him, the same feeling that had made him come looking for Isabelle in the first place. Something was happening here, something he couldn't quite place, but it was sinister, and for some reason he couldn't explain, he was certain that whatever it was, it wanted to destroy this woman in front of him.

He said, “It
is
strange, his being alone.” He walked back to where he had thrown his long rifle down, reloaded it as he talked. “I should check for others. I'll walk you back to the camp first. I don't want you alone at night anymore.”

Glancing up, he saw a slow smile spread across her face, her eyes slanting provocatively at him. “Are you my protector now?”

How could she be flirtatious after such an ordeal? It was all he could do not to shake some sense into her. He contented himself with, “As far as you'll let me. But it seems obvious you know what to do when you have to.” He finished reloading, then looked up from his rifle, their gazes locking in the silent moonlight. “You knew not to run, to crouch down. You knew just where to stab it, didn't you?”

“Yes. I knew. The position making me the most vulnerable was the only position strong enough to kill it. I didn't think all of that through, mind you.” She smiled at him. “But something … something inside me knew.” She laughed. “I must wash, though. If Julian sees me like this, he'll try to pack me off back home to mother, and that I will not allow.”

Samuel nodded his understanding. “Jump in the stream then.” He grinned his own wicked grin at her. “We'll say you tripped and fell in while dancing.”

Isabelle gasped. “How long were you standing there watching me?”

“Oh, long enough, I think. I don't suppose you can complain… . I did slow him down a bit.” He looked pointedly at the dead wolf.

Isabelle gestured toward her clothing. “If you were going to go and spy on me, you could have at least killed the thing and saved me the trouble of a ruined dress.”

Samuel took a step closer, then another and another. Reaching out, he grasped the side of her face, wiping a smear of the wolf's blood from her cheek with his thumb. His voice lowered. “Next time, I will not fail your dress.”

Isabelle tilted her head into his hand. “Why do I feel I know
you?” It was a breathy thought, as if to herself. “As if I have found the place where I can finally breathe?”

Samuel inhaled as he heard his own feelings being put into words, feelings that were unheard and unsought and more frightening than any wolf or enemy or an entire army even.

Had he ever felt this connected to Sara?

“I shouldn't want to put you to sleep.” He took refuge in teasing, trying to make light of the intensity between them.

Her lips curved into a provocative smile. “What should you want with me then, sir?”

He groaned. Did she know what she did to him? Did she really want the truth? “I should want to awaken something in you,” he heard himself say.

Isabelle took a step toward him.

His heart began a steady drumming that he thought she must be able to hear. He wanted to kiss her. But he just stared at her, his gaze roving over each delicate feature, a face a moment ago that was so fierce in victory but was now pliant and open to him.

His thumb stroked her jaw, and then he realized what he was doing, reminding himself why anything with this temptress would prove as wrong as his first marriage, and he let his arm drop back to his side.

She stepped closer, not giving up, reaching for him, sliding her hands inside his jacket, touching his ribs. She traced a lower rib saying on a breath, “Here is where I was taken.”

He drew in a sharp breath, felt the panic like a lance in that spot.

Backing away, his hands outstretched as if to ward her off. He turned from her passionate stare and did something he'd only done once before in his life.

He ran away.

Hope picked up a candle from the bedside table and quietly lit it, walking from the bedroom to the fireplace in her kitchen. She stretched as she walked, the ache in her low back more profound than usual.

She had been awakened by a nightmare. An apparition, ferocious and huge, had attacked her daughter, mauling her while several people stood by and watched. She had stood in that group, frozen and unable to help, her throat working with the effort to shout. Isabelle, her daughter, had been torn to pieces.

Still overwhelmed by the intensity of the dream, Hope crept out of the bedroom where Joseph quietly snored, home from his latest excursion, and went to calm herself with a cup of tea. While the tea steeped, the feeling that her children were in danger would not leave her. So she settled in to pray.

This had happened to her before. And she recognized it as a battle, something she had to pray through until the pressure lifted from her. As she walked around the living area, working the aches from her body, she knew that this particular battle had not yet been won. “What now, Lord?”

A memory assailed her. While living in the east, Hope had become friends with a Christian woman who could only be described as on fire with the zeal of God. The woman, Lydia, had spent much time with Hope, teaching her to understand and apply the Holy Scriptures to her life. And slowly her life had begun to change. She began to accept and love Joseph as he was. As she learned to trust God to meet all of her needs, she was able to allow Joseph and the others around her freedom to be who they were. She let go of her attempts to change Joseph so that she might feel stable and instead found stability in an intimate relationship with her Savior.

Hope and Lydia had spent many hours together in prayer, and as God chose to answer their petitions, they saw strange things, wonderful things, and sometimes frightening, otherworldly things.

Occasionally Hope was awakened at night and could feel the presence of God in the room with her. She would get up and begin to pray, often for an hour or more. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the burden would be lifted, and as tired as any soldier, Hope would climb back into her warm bed to sleep.

It had been a long time since this had happened, and as she thought about it, Hope realized that she still missed Lydia. In truth, it was harder to walk the road of the prayer warrior alone. Suddenly she understood that deep within she was still upset about being separated from her friend. Her whole life had been about moving away from people she cared about—about following Joseph's dreams instead of her own heart. A few still moments passed as she reflected on this revelation. Yes. In her heart there was still hardness, some bitterness, some loneliness she had not yet dealt with.

Then another revelation, and Hope took a sudden breath: She had allowed this resentment toward God to rob her of her
prayer life. To rob her of what was quite possibly her reason for being on this earth. She felt her eyes well with tears. She might not be a great explorer like her husband, regaling an audience with stories of her conquests or holding people spellbound with her personal charisma. No, she was a warrior of prayer. A warrior in a realm more real than this flesh would prove to be, of that she was certain. And as God knew, she could carry this mission to anywhere on the earth, even in the shadow of her rainbow-seeking husband. No,
especially
in his shadow.

Even now she lived in a time and place that was changing, with the war for independence in the east. True, she lived in a frontier village that seemed so small and insignificant by comparison. Yet her village and others like it had been fought over by the French, the Indians, and the British. That spoke of great significance. And yet she had prayed so little in recent years.

She was sickened and angry that she had allowed her enemy to blind her with self-pity, not trusting that God, who saw and knew all, had a greater plan for her than her limited vision could recognize.

“Dear God—” She had let so many years be taken! Hope sank to her knees, tears running down her cheeks. “I am sorry, Lord. Your will—not mine,” she cried out. “I am so sorry.”

She felt better, even with such simple words, knowing that God had revealed to her the hidden depths of her heart. With renewed, humble resolve, she began to pray for her children and whatever else the Lord might trust her with.

* * *

QUIET FOX HAD disappeared.

Isabelle, Julian, and Samuel searched for the guide around the perimeter of the campsite, carefully moving brush and bush so
as not to disturb any footprints, but they found nothing beyond their own prints, save the wolf's prints by the stream. Quiet Fox, or someone, had been careful to cover his tracks. Finally they decided they must go on without him.

Samuel kept them moving at a pace that made Isabelle's legs quiver in exhaustion, made sweat soak through the bodice of her dress and her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.

Samuel didn't talk much, seemingly determined to keep some distance between them after the intense encounter of the night before. But Isabelle had caught him looking at her in a way that said he wasn't as disinterested as he wanted to appear. Why was he working so hard to ignore her? Had she frightened him off? It was all she could think about as they marched.

On the fourth day the trees gave way to the high grasses of blue-green prairies. Waving and rippling under the hot sun, buzzing with insects, tickling and itching, in places the grass reached to Isabelle's chin. She walked carefully at first, not knowing what might be slithering in the lush growth under her moccasined feet, but soon enough she didn't have the strength left to care. The wood had made walking difficult at times, but at least it had been shaded. Now the hazy heat of the sun beat down on their reddened faces, making them damp with sweat and causing the men to pull their hats low over their foreheads.

To make matters worse, the canteens were running low on water. Isabelle's hand shook with trepidation as the last warm, wet swallow disappeared down her scratchy throat. Lengthening her stride to catch up with Samuel, she grasped his arm.

He stopped, took off his hat, and wiped his brow with the sleeve of the arm Isabelle wasn't hanging onto. He then replaced the hat, not looking as hot or tired as she and her brother certainly did.

“Water,” she croaked. “We need to find water.”

Samuel looked into the distance ahead of them and squinted. He pulled his canteen out of its strap holder at his waist and handed it over as he talked. “Take mine. We might not reach another water source until the Kaskaskia River. It's why I am pushing us so hard. If we hurry, we should reach it by nightfall.”

Isabelle took the offered canteen, looked back to judge how far Julian was behind them, then pulled the cork out. Looking into Samuel's eyes, she put her mouth on the lip of the canteen and tilted it back, taking a long swallow.

“Thank you,” she said, holding out the water.

He took a quick drink, Isabelle unabashedly watching him, noticing the beginnings of a beard that had grown in the time since she'd met him. His eyes met hers with a tentative, afraid-of-what-she-might-do-next look in them. Taking pity on him, she only smiled and offered the cork.

He reached for it, his fingers touching hers for a moment. “Well, we should keep moving if you can. River should be a few hours ahead of us.”

Suddenly there was a shout from Julian. He was gazing upward, his finger pointing to the sky.

Samuel and Isabelle looked up and went still. The sun was darkening at an alarming rate.

“What is it?” Isabelle breathed.

Samuel stood, braced. She could hear his quickening breath, knew that he was trying to assimilate the strange phenomenon above them.

Julian ran up to them, quoting Scripture. “‘The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord.'”

Isabelle felt her heart pound at the words. Was that it? Was the world ending?

Suddenly Samuel pulled her toward him and pressed her head into his shoulder. His voice was low and intense as he commanded Julian, “Don't look at it. Look away.”

Isabelle felt the muscles of Samuel's shoulder against her forehead, his hand against the back of her head. She breathed hard, wanting to look up but knowing that she could not move against the steady pressure of his hand.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“I don't know.” His voice was against her ear. “But I know we shouldn't watch it.”

“Is it evil?”

She could feel his whole body tense as he searched out the question. “Not evil,” he said finally. “Just something we shouldn't look at.”

“I don't understand,” she wailed. “Let me go.”

“Trust me.”

He pulled her closer in an embrace that an hour ago she would have fought an army for, but now she felt trapped and small and weak.

“For goodness' sake. For once in your life, Isabelle, trust someone.”

A few hours later they had exhausted every conceivable explanation of what had made the sun go dark and fell into silent marching. Now, with no river in sight, Isabelle began to feel a little desperate. The sun beat on the exposed back of her neck now, making it burn and sting when she turned her head. Her raging thirst was playing tricks on her, turning her thoughts to areas of her mind that she hadn't known existed until now—places of defeat, of hopelessness, of dark dread. Her legs continued to move of their own accord, pushing her forward in a sluggish line that wavered and weaved.

Julian moved alongside her and put his arm around her,
supporting some of her weight. “Are you okay
, ma soeur
?” he asked, using a name he hadn't called her since he was a boy.

Isabelle leaned into his shoulder, trying to put a smile into her voice. “Some water would be nice.”

“Don't think about it so much.”

“I cannot seem to think of anything else. I wonder if Samuel is right, that we'll reach the river by nightfall.”

“Even if we don't, we will feel better after the sun goes down. We should walk faster if you can though. Samuel is getting farther and farther ahead of us.”

This was different, Julian being the stronger of them. She touched his shoulder. “You are growing up,
mon frère
.”

He shook his head and looked down, embarrassed but with pleasure flooding his face.

She caught his dark blue eyes and smiled with compressed lips. “I am glad you are my brother.”

She had never said that before, and he looked quickly away. “As if you had a choice.”

“Well, there is that,” she said, jabbing him in the shoulder and lightening the mood. Then she tilted her head and smiled at him. “It is true though. Don't forget it.”

Julian just shook his head.

Turning brisk, Isabelle said loud enough for Samuel to hear, “I think we are lost.” Then quieter, more serious. “What if he has given us false promises of his scouting and tracking abilities? We don't really know him.”

“I thought you liked him,” Julian teased.

“I did. Until he made fun of me. And then manhandled me.”

“He did not.”

“So quick to defend a stranger.” She looked ahead to where Samuel walked several yards in front of them. “We don't really
know anything about him,” Isabelle stubbornly insisted as if to herself.

“We will be careful. But I think,” Julian said in a faraway voice, “Samuel could be our friend. Don't lose faith in our scout just yet.”

Isabelle lengthened her stride and nodded. “I hope you are right.”

* * *

ON THE FIFTH day they traveled only a little way before seeing a dark smudge against the horizon. It felt like they had been adrift on a sea of grass for days and then, suddenly, up ahead was land. Salvation had come in the form of a dark tree line in the distance and the promise of the Kaskaskia River. Samuel didn't tell them how relieved he was to see it, how he had thought they might be lost and wandering straight into hostile territory. Instead, he spurred them on with renewed promises of water.

They walked faster now, saying little, conserving all their energy for the task of keeping one foot moving in front of the other in the tall grass. Samuel offered Isabelle his arm to lean on, but she spurned it saying, “I'm fine,” and then proved it by walking ahead of all of them for the next fifteen minutes.

By noon they reached the farmhouse Samuel was sent on this mission to find, causing him internally to change hats from guide to spy, covertly studying the farmhouse as they approached it, as well as the surrounding land, its proximity to the river, and the availability of any boats and outlying buildings. It was just as the hunters had described.

It was perfect.

Isabelle ran toward the door, a raspy cry of relief escaping from her parched throat. Samuel started to stop her, then thought
about it and regrouped. If the Renoirs cooperated, and he thought they would, this might prove a valuable front to explain his presence in the area. He watched as she banged on the door, saw a young woman open it, listening and nodding. He and Julian were now close enough to hear Isabelle say that they were traveling to Kaskaskia and had run out of water.

By the time Samuel and Julian got to the plank door, a man had joined the woman. He was quite a bit older than his wife but had bright, intelligent eyes and, after a thorough perusal of the three of them, held out his hand to Samuel.

“Henry Coffman.”

Samuel grinned with friendly intent and nodded to Isabelle. “I hope my wife didn't startle you, sir. She's been mighty thirsty these last two days, and I didn't have the heart to stop her headlong rush to your door.”

The couple smiled at the wide-eyed Isabelle as she stood by a barrel of water, drinking from a huge wooden ladle. Samuel gave her a look that said to go along with the story. She tilted her head at him and sauntered over, extending her hand to their hosts and passing the ladle to Julian.