James and Wildcat both went still, staring at each other. It was true. As children they had tussled. That had been long ago. There was a curious glint of shame in Wildcat’s eyes that surprised James. There was no warrior fiercer than Wildcat. And it was true that many Indians had died at the hands of their own loved ones simply for hungering for survival—and capitulation.
James didn’t want to kill Wildcat, and he was certain that Wildcat didn’t want him dead, either. Pride was tremendous among the Seminoles—as the Indian agent Wiley had learned, dying at the hands of Osceola’s men after having so foolishly humiliated the man.
Now he and Wildcat stared at each other, looking for an honorable way out of their fight.
James leaped from Wildcat, offering a hand to bring him to his feet.
Wildcat accepted his hand and stood up.
“My friend, I should have kept my temper. I beg your pardon. The argument was my fault,” James said.
“I was at fault,” Wildcat corrected. “I tormented my childhood friend.”
“I beg to remain your friend,” James told him.
“And I beg to remain yours,” Wildcat said, and added quickly, “I saw Warren’s daughter at the new fort. I saw her dancing. We thought to attack the fort, but it was too strongly built, and there were too many soldiers. From the trees beyond the clearing, I could see into the hall. She was different from the other women. Radiant with her wild hair and supple energy. She was in silk and lace. She danced with many soldiers. Smiled and laughed. She was very elegant, very beautiful. Very white.”
James felt white himself. Drained of all blood.
“It does not matter how beautiful she is, how elegant. She is not the right woman for you,” Wildcat said. “You should consider Sunflower.”
“I would not do Sunflower the injustice of marrying her when my heart is so heavy with so many matters,” James said carefully, diplomatically. It was amazing to him that he could speak at all. It seemed that the whole of his body was tied into knots.
Wildcat nodded at him. “I understand.”
“Sunflower lost a brave warrior who loved her beyond life itself, and she is very young and very beautiful. A warrior who deserves her, and can offer her all of his heart, will come for her soon.”
“Perhaps it is so,” Wildcat agreed. “My heart and my prayers go with you, my friend.”
“And mine with you,” James said. He turned to leave the council fire, certain that he could no longer manage the control to carry on a conversation when it felt as if he had just been ripped to shreds. He simmered with rage he could neither ease nor vent. One that would eventually explode or implode, destroying him either way. What the hell was Teela doing, the little fool? “Running Bear!”
James paused because Wildcat had called to him. As he turned, Wildcat hesitated, then walked firmly to stand before him.
“You are my friend, I understand you. Still, you should know. Even with your power and respect among the people, you do have enemies.”
“All men have enemies,” James said uneasily.
Wildcat’s voice lowered still further, though Alligator was gone and they stood in the darkness alone. “The Mikasuki war chief, Otter, has sworn death to all whites, and that he will do to them what they have done to us. He will watch the soldiers at the fort and see that they are attacked along the trails any time they leave in small groups. He is waiting for Warren to leave; he covets his scalp. He is anxious for Warren’s daughter to leave. He would rather have hers first, to send to Warren.”
James extended a hand to Wildcat. “Thank you.”
“If any of us comes upon the woman, we will take her for you, keep her alive. Even if she is wrong for you, and will bring down greater misery upon us.”
“Thank you,” James told him again.
He turned away. His rage was greater, churning with a fury, enhanced by a deadly fear.
He’d done everything in his power to see that she left the territory! At least at his brother’s house she had been safe. Why had she left Jarrett’s home, come eastward?
Warren, he thought, and he inwardly raged anew. Warren had come for her. And if Jarrett had refused Warren, he could have brought down the entire might of the army upon himself. He might have even risked Jennifer’s safety, and Jarrett would have known that.
Teela would have known that.
But now, if Teela left the protection of the fort, she could damned well get herself killed.
James wound his fingers into fists, stiffening rigidly with his anguish and fear. By all the damned gods he could pray to, if he got his hands on her, he’d kill her himself. Surely she’d had ample chances to leave the whole theater of war, to sail home, to get out!
He strode to his makeshift shelter for the night and sat beneath its cabbage palm roof, looking up at the half-moon that rode the heavens.
He closed his eyes. She wouldn’t leave the shelter of the fort. She was well aware of just how dangerous her position could be. She knew that Warren was hated, and that the Indians might well know her as Warren’s daughter.
Warren’s daughter …
There was nothing that he could do now. Except watch and wait. And pray.
No.
He crawled out of the shelter, standing. Damn her! He didn’t dare go to her.
But by every god in every heaven, he didn’t dare stay away.
Chapter 15
Fort Deliverance had been kindly named, Teela thought, for there was really very little that the fort could deliver one from.
It was actually one of the depots made quickly and desperately in a chain against the Indians. It had been constructed by Tennessean and Georgian volunteers who had been promised that their stint in the Florida Territory would be over once a few such forts had been erected, and though it was a strong outpost in the wilderness, there were many day-to-day examples to demonstrate just how hastily it had been built.
The roof leaked in Teela’s room. The wind ripped through gaps in the logs. The howling of wolves at night was loud, and seemed dangerously near.
But she did not mind such things so much. She minded the fact that she had come here with Warren, and she minded the horrors that she had seen along the way.
Standing atop the ramparts that ran the entire length of all four sides of the walled structure, Teela looked out over the land. They were thirty miles or so south of St. Augustine, yet they might have been a thousand, for there seemed to be nothing in front of her except strange, waving oceans of deep, rich green. Tall pine trees stretched out far to her north while there was swampland to the south and southwest, and bracken barrens to the east with the Atlantic Ocean not far beyond. There were trails out there somewhere, even a few good government roads. But to anyone walking just beyond the walls of the fort, it seemed that it was either a forbidden wild land or a very strange paradise, for there was nothing but the green of the foliage, the brown and tan of the earth, the bright blue of the sky, and the occasional deep turquoise of a creek or stream. Sometimes huge oaks shaded narrow trails from the heat of the day; there were exquisite copses where the boughs all seemed to join overhead right where a delightful little stream would tinkle by melodiously.
Fort Deliverance. Where the wind howled and the roof leaked. And men died daily, if not from bullets, knives, or arrows, from the scourge of disease.
Ah, yes, she was here. And sane, thanks to Joshua Brandeis and a few other men. She’d never ridden out with the men, but she assisted Joshua frequently in surgery, and with him she had created something of a hospital within the confines of the rickety fort. She suffered with the sick and injured men, but there was a sweet satisfaction in knowing that she aided them as well, and eased some of their suffering. She read to them, she wrote letters for them. Through her writing she learned how they felt about being consigned here. How they feared the heat and malaise, how they slowly became inured to the battle cries of the Seminoles. They were different, all of them. Some of them simply hated the redskins and d
idn’t see human beings beyond the bronze faces. Other soldiers were fascinated by the wild and savage frontier created by the swamps and bogs and hammocks over which they fought, and by the lives of the men they fought day after day. Many had made friends among the Seminoles, and it seemed strange to Teela that they could fight those friends with such vigor and determination. Many prayed just to survive and go home. Some thought of it as nothing more than either a terrible or interesting step in their military career. Still, others saw the Florida peninsula as an Eden, a place where they might seek their own American dreams.
When she wasn’t with the men, she spent a great deal of time with Joshua Brandeis. She liked him. She didn’t really know his feelings about the Seminoles they fought, but where other men were concerned, he was always blunt, honest, and determined. He wasn’t afraid of the officers, nor did he seek to antagonize them. He knew his own worth, and his goal was simply to save lives whenever he could. He taught her some of the incredible medical values of such simple things as sulfur, salt, moss, mud, herbs and roots that could be dug up almost anywhere. He admitted to her as well that there was so very little the best of doctors really understood about healing, fever, and infections, and he taught her that the will to live was almost always the best medicine. He was glad to have her; her hands were able, her mind was swift and competent. And she had the ability above all to give men the desire to fight and survive.
In all her life no one had ever so quietly and honestly valued her abilities. Even James seemed to think that she was ornamental and nothing more. It was odd to have finally met so many men who had such strong influence upon her life: John Harrington, who was all gallantry, protection, and charm; Robert Trent, so willing to teach about the place he so loved; Tyler, the perfect army officer; Joshua, who treated her as an equal; Jarrett McKenzie, who had been more like a father to her than Michael Warren, and welcomed her into his home and fought for her, even when he risked a certain danger there himself. And then …
Then there was James. And if she hadn’t met him, she might have thought that John Harrington was charming. She might have found her liking for Joshua Brandeis very strong. She would never know. Because she had met James. And it didn’t matter that John Harrington was right for her, or that she could spend hours in both silence and comfort working with Joshua. Nothing could be as strong as the simple feelings of passion and longing James had awakened within her.
Occasionally, the soldiers brought in a wounded Seminole. And each time she came to assist Joshua, her heart in her throat, praying.
She tried to tell herself that James did not seek to do battle in the war, that he had probably gone far to the south to see to his mother’s safety and happiness.
But that wasn’t true. Somehow she knew it. He was near, because the forest was here, because so many of the war chiefs were near. Because he could speak for those chiefs, negotiate for them if a truce was called. He would want peace, an honorable peace. He would work for it …
And if he was attacked, he would fight.
So she continued to wait, watch, pray. And to avoid her stepfather as best she could. Luckily, her performance with the sick and injured soldiers had brought such praise from the men that Michael had seemed satisfied enough to keep his distance from her.
“Teela!”
She turned from her study of the land with an instinctive stiffening as she suddenly heard his voice. Dear God, what now?
“Teela!”
Even as he snapped out her name a second time, she felt a sudden shivering seize her. She had the strangest feeling that her time of waiting was over. Something would happen. Soon.
Don’t be an idiot! she mentally chided herself. She stilled her shivers and ruefully reminded herself that he made her flesh crawl every time he came near her. This time was no different.
Michael Warren was nearly upon her. He had climbed the wooden steps to the ramparts and now strode along them with the perfect military precision by which he lived. However, his efforts were wasted here. For the most part, the Florida militia men and volunteers dressed however they would, often in dun hunting frocks and plain breeches. These men were interspersed with those wearing tattered and ill-fitting uniforms of the regular army, navy, and marines, since so many seafarers had been assigned to land duty when the Indian wars broke out. But while other men grew more casual in the hammocks, heat, and swampland, Michael Warren grew more precise. His collar was starched and ironed sharp as a blade. His stance and walk were disciplined, his major’s insignias neatly in place upon each shoulder.
“There’s to be a dance tonight, daughter, right here, in the main hall of the fort.”
Another dance, she thought wearily. So much for destiny churning into motion.
Another wretched dance!
They were very close to St. Augustine, where young ladies of good family lived, where some of the career soldiers had their wives and children now. Many young women were more than willing to risk the hazards of the trip into camp for the prospect of acquiring a good husband with a fine military career ahead of him. She had to admit that it was amazing to see what a wonderful effect such a thing had on the morale of the men. She had seen several of them who had been close to death’s door arise at the promise of beautiful young women to touch, to hold, to charm.
She simply hated the dances herself. There were many soldiers she had befriended, but there were also those men she had seen kill with relish; those who thought that they hunted not human beings but lesser animals. She couldn’t bear being touched by them, held by them, charmed by them, even under such circumstances as a simple dance. Besides, she had been tired lately, perhaps weary of it all. She hadn’t felt exactly ill, but she hadn’t felt particularly well.
And she simply hated Michael Warren. More and more.
She tried to keep a bitter smile from her lips, a taunt from her voice, “Sir, as you requested, I attended last week’s party. But since John Harrington remains in the field and I know not where, I don’t believe it would be proper for me to attend a dance again.”
“This is to be a very special occasion. General Jesup himself is to be among our guests this evening, and you, my daughter, will be on hand. He has heard about you—in glowing terms, I might add—and you will be there, daughter.”
“Sir—”
“I am being sent out again tomorrow morning. If you wish to remain here in my absence, I would suggest your obedient attendance.”
And she would obey him. It was either that or watch what he did when he rode with his men.
“The hardships on the march are many,” he reminded her.
“I am not afraid of the hardships.”
“It is me you fear?”
She shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you. What you wish to inflict upon me you will.”
She was startled by the sudden torment and impatience that imbued his eyes and voice. “I have tried, by God, I have tried to be fair with you, to do my best for you, in Lilly’s memory! It is God’s will that a daughter honor her father, and you fault me at every turn. You should be locked away with the Good Book for nights without end to learn humility and obedience, girl, but as that is something I cannot enforce at this time, I will remind you that I am your master—until you wed young Mr. Harrington, at which point I will wash my hands of you! Now, you will attend the dance this evening, and you will make none of your rude remarks to the general, or you will tour this countryside with me strapped to the back of a mule!”
Thankfully, he didn’t want a reply. He turned and walked away from her—with crisp, military precision.
He left her shaking. She fled from the ramparts herself, hurrying down to the small room that had been allotted her. She threw herself upon her cot, flushed, hot, afraid that she was going to be sick. The moment passed. Pulling herself up, she found fresh water in her pitcher, poured it into her washbowl, and soaked her face until she felt cooler. There was a knock on her door.
“Teela?”
“Yes
, come in,” she said, knowing the voice. It was Katy Walker, wife of Lieutenant Harry Walker, second in command at the fort. She was a pretty woman in her late twenties, Teela thought, with a rich head of dark curls, rosy cheeks no matter what the weather, and a calm demeanor that defied all chaos.
Katy stepped in, closing the door behind her. She smiled. “I’ve just asked Annabella to bring us some tea,” she said. “I saw you with your father. And I saw you run here. Are you quite all right? Oh, dear! I understand. Your handsome young man is out in the wilderness, and Michael is insisting you show your beautiful face at the dance again, is that it?”
“Er, well, something like that,” Teela murmured. Katy had never shown her—or anyone else, for that matter— anything but kindness. How could she tell her that John Harrington had proven to be a wonderful friend, but that she spent her days and nights praying for a half-breed Seminole who wanted her out of his life?
There was a second knock on the door. Annabella, Katy’s young black personal maid, arrived with a tea tray. “Thank you, Annabella, please set it…” She looked around for a place, but the room was sparsely furnished. There was a cot, a small set of dresser drawers, Teela’s trunk, and a washstand.
“Set it there, please, Annabella, right in the center of the bed,” Teela said.
Annabella grinned and complied. “Is there anything else, Miz Walker?”
“Not till later, Annabella. Why don’t you take a rest now yourself till it’s time for me to get ready for the festivities this evening?”
Annabella smiled, bobbed a nod, and left them, closing the door softly in her wake. Katy stared after her for a moment, then shivered fiercely. “Sometimes it just frightens me terribly, all that goes on here! You know, just months ago, the men brought down a tribe of warriors that were nearly all young negro men, and half of them slaves in St. Augustine just months before! Why, I do tell you, the people were just terrified of total insurrection! Thankfully, the matter has been quelled.”