Captured by Love Read online

  Angelique loosened the string of her pocket, holding her breath, willing Miriam to share the news, to tell her she’d seen Pierre.

  The rustling stilled, and silence filled the room.

  “Something happened,” Miriam finally said quietly.

  Angelique slipped the eggs from her pocket and placed them on the table. If only the dear woman weren’t so perceptive. “Did you have any visitors this morning?”

  “Was I supposed to?”

  Angelique reached into her bodice and pulled out the ashcake she’d wrapped in a rag. She laid it on the table next to the eggs, then crossed the room and knelt before the dying embers.

  Pierre was a louse. Why hadn’t he taken a few minutes out of his busy life to visit his mother? That wasn’t too much to ask of anyone, was it?

  “You can tell me the truth, Angel,” Miriam said.

  Angelique grasped a scant handful of the shavings and crumbles of bark that covered the bottom of the woodbox. “You’re almost out of wood. It’s a good thing the nights aren’t so cold anymore.”

  “Who did you see this morning?” Miriam persisted.

  Angelique sighed. She should have known she wouldn’t be able to avoid Miriam’s probing.

  What should she reveal? That she’d been attacked by the fort’s quartermaster? Or that she’d seen Pierre? Which would cause Miriam less distress?

  Telling her about Pierre would be much too cruel. What mother could bear the news that her long-lost son had returned but neglected to visit her?

  “It’s nothing to worry about.” Angelique added the pieces of wood chips to the embers. “I ran into one of the soldiers on my way here this morning, and he demanded that I give him my catch of fish.”

  Miriam’s chair scraped against the wooden floor. Through the dim light beginning to filter in through the east window past the faded yellow calico curtains, Angelique could see her rise. “Did he hurt you?” Miriam’s voice was breathless.

  Angelique pushed herself up and started across the room toward Miriam, wiping her dusty hands against her skirt. “Please don’t worry.”

  Miriam grasped for Angelique. Her trembling fingers skimmed Angelique’s face, sliding over her cheeks, her nose, her eyes. In spite of her near blindness, Miriam found the chafed skin on her neck where Lieutenant Steele had nearly choked her. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”

  “Only a little.” Angelique lifted her hand to Miriam’s cheek and caressed it with all the love she had for the woman who was more of a mother to her than her own had ever been.

  In spite of Miriam’s age, her cheeks were still smooth and unlined beneath Angelique’s fingers, which were as scratchy as the sandstone cliffs along the shore.

  Angelique blamed her rough skin on the daily ice fishing and the exposure to the frigid temperatures and icy water that often left the skin on her fingers cracked and bleeding.

  “You must stop coming to me,” Miriam whispered, gently tracing the swollen skin around Angelique’s neck. “It’s too dangerous for you.”

  “I’ll be more careful tomorrow.”

  Miriam’s fingers fell away, and Angelique helped guide her friend to the table, to the eggs and the ashcake. “Have you given me your own breakfast again?”

  “No. It’s for you.” The sight of the food gnawed at the lining of Angelique’s stomach. But she turned away from Miriam before the woman could sense the truth—that she had indeed given up her meager fare of coveted bread, part of her dinner from the previous evening.

  “At least eat half of it, Angel,” Miriam said.

  “I’ll have my breakfast once I return to the inn.” Angelique crossed the room and knelt in front of the hearth again. “Betty will have fried fish.”

  At least she hoped Ebenezer’s new wife would give her something for her breakfast.

  “Please eat it, Miriam.” Angelique bent near the embers, blew on them, and was rewarded with a glow of orange, a few sparks, and a waft of smoke.

  Miriam never complained about her hunger or the scanty rationing. But the thin shoulders, bony arms, and loose bodice were testament to the constant struggle with starvation.

  “I have a few acorn shells too,” Angelique said. “I’ll start the fire and then you can steep them for tea.” She hated to leave Miriam alone with the fire and any form of cooking. The blisters from the last burn on the back of Miriam’s hand had only recently healed.

  “God is with us, Angel,” Miriam said. “Whatever problems may come, He’s our unchanging, solid rock. If we’re standing on Him, nothing will shake us.”

  Angelique wanted to believe Miriam. But unchanging and solid were foreign words to her. There had never been anything even remotely solid about her life.

  “We’ll just keep praying the war will be over this summer and that Jean will be able to return to us soon. That you’ll be able to marry him finally. And be safe.”

  Jean—kind, considerate, steady Jean. He might be Pierre’s brother, but he was nothing like him. And even if Jean was away fighting with the Americans, they knew without a doubt he would return when he could.

  A renewed stab of frustration sliced through Angelique. Why hadn’t Pierre stopped to visit his mother? If he had, he would have seen how poor she’d become, how little she had without Jean there to take care of her, and how desperately she needed help.

  But as much as she wanted to believe that Pierre would have stayed to help his mother if only he were aware of her hardships, she also knew Pierre was wild at heart and forever dreaming of adventure.

  He would never be the steady source of help either of them needed.

  Yes, it was for the best that Pierre had not visited Miriam, that he’d not gotten their hopes up.

  In fact, it was probably better for all of their sakes if Pierre didn’t come back at all.

  Chapter

  2

  Pierre squinted at his reflection in the clear puddle and scraped the long razor across his cheek again.

  “Ah, looking good, monsieur.” He sat up straighter and flashed himself a grin so that he could see the full effect of his personal ministrations. “Looking real good.”

  He’d spent more time taking care of his appearance in the past two hours than he had all winter. Like the rest of his brigade, he’d scrubbed the bear grease from his face and had lathered himself with soap to rid himself of all the dirt and vermin he’d accumulated during the past months of travel. He’d even attempted to launder his clothes, although the first chance he had, he was trading for a pair of corduroy trousers and a cotton shirt.

  Red Fox watched him with his steady, serious eyes.

  “What do you think?” Pierre rubbed his hand across his chin, the smooth skin strange under his callused fingers. “I’ll bet you’ve never seen anyone quite as handsome, have you?”

  “I think you want to make a feast for black flies and mosquitoes.”

  Pierre knew the young brave thought he was foolish for shaving the heavy beard and washing away the bear grease that kept them from being eaten to the bones by vicious swarms of insects that came to life every spring.

  “It’s a small price to pay to get the attention of the pretty ladies.” Pierre bent toward the pool of recent rainwater, cupped his hands, and splashed his face. “Where I come from, the smell and sight of bear grease isn’t exactly going to endear me to anyone.”

  “You do not need those ladies.” Red Fox’s ever-watchful eyes scanned the lakeshore, where the rest of the voyageurs were washing and making themselves presentable before they forayed into civilized society. “Not when you could have a good woman from among my tribe.”

  Pierre rinsed his razor. Many coureur de bois like himself took Indian women as their wives. The native women knew how to paddle and patch a canoe and make bearskin robes, and they could ice fish in the harshest of winter temperatures. As the headman of a fur brigade, an Indian wife could be a great asset. Many of his fellow traders married Indian women, not only for their knowledge of the land and ability to s
urvive in the wilderness but because the unions helped solidify trading relationships within tribes.

  Maybe marriage to an Indian woman was his best option. Even so, he wanted to put it off for as long as possible. “I’m not ready to get married.”

  “Then you do not need the attention of ladies.”

  Pierre tossed Red Fox a grin. “There are some of us who get attention no matter what we do.”

  He dried the razor blade on the grass and then returned it to the leather case he only used in the spring and summer when he returned to civilization.

  The wide open shoreline that made up the south side of the Straits spread before him. It had been cleared of all its timber in bygone years. In fact, the treeless terrain stretched back for at least three miles from the shore, evidence of the old fort and community that had once thrived there.

  Now all that remained were a few charred picket walls buried in drifting sand. Long before he’d been born, the old buildings had been dragged across the ice of the Straits and reconstructed on Michilimackinac Island, which was a more strategic location for a fort than the wide, exposed mainland.

  Too bad the Americans hadn’t been able to make use of that strategy and hold the fort at the beginning of the war.

  He peered across the choppy water. In the distance he could see the rising hump of the island, the Great Turtle, as the Ottawa called it—the place where the waters of both Lake Michigan and Lake Huron flowed together around the island’s shoreline.

  Home.

  He dragged in a breath of the damp, cool air, letting the familiar lakeshore breeze caress his bare skin. His predawn trip onto the island yesterday morning had made him realize how much he’d missed his childhood home in the years he’d been gone.

  He’d never thought he would miss it, had always expected that once he left he’d never want to return.

  But thankfully God had whacked him hard across the head and brought him to his knees.

  And as much as he loved the wilderness and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, an urgent need to return to the island had haunted him these past months, ever since he’d learned that Michilimackinac had fallen to the British.

  “We must go. The Great Spirit Git-chi Man-i-tou is waiting.” Red Fox rose from the rock where he’d perched. His necklace of beads and metal disks clinked together and bumped against his shirtless chest. He’d already painted his face, one half blue and the other half red with the vermillion Pierre had provided the Chippewa in preparation for their return to the island.

  Red Fox’s tribe would be paddling to the island today too, arriving to receive their yearly gifts from the British, a system that provided provisions to the Indians in exchange for their friendship.

  “We have waited too many sleeps to go to the Great Turtle,” Red Fox said, his young face thin with worry. “We must not anger the Great Spirit by waiting any longer.”

  Pierre crossed his arms and assessed his crew among the throngs. “We’ll leave soon. When the men are ready.” His men were laughing and singing and excited about the stop on Michilimackinac.

  Even though he was anxious to return, he was nervous too. His parting with his family hadn’t exactly been a happy occasion.

  His foolishness weighed heavily upon him whenever he thought about the final heated argument he’d had with his papa. He may have made peace with God, but he’d never be able to make peace with Papa. Now he’d have to live the rest of his life with the regret of not being able to look Papa in the eyes, shake his hand, and ask for his forgiveness.

  At least soon he’d be able to stand before his maman, hug her, and tell her he was sorry.

  Of course, during his early morning mission to the island the previous day, he hadn’t been able to resist swinging by his home and peeking in on her. He’d had to wrench himself away, even though his heart had swelled with longing to feel her gentle fingers comb his hair as she’d always done. He knew speaking with her would have put his entire mission in jeopardy. As it was, he’d stayed too long.

  He hadn’t planned to let anyone see him. But on his way back to his canoe, he’d come across a soldier strangling a young woman. Thankfully he’d knocked the soldier out before he knew what was coming. When the soldier woke up, he wouldn’t have any clue what had happened. Which was a good thing, because the British liked him and thought he was their friend. If any of them suspected he was communicating with the Americans, they’d arrest him and lock him away for the duration of the war, if they didn’t kill him first.

  Unfortunately, the woman had seen his face, had been too curious, and dare he say—recognized him? And even though he’d pleaded with her to remain silent, he had the feeling she’d already spread word about his arrival to everyone on the island.

  He couldn’t really blame her. He remembered what it was like after the long winter, waiting for the first contact with someone from the outside world. Whatever the case, he was hoping the fresh shave and a change of wearing apparel would make him indistinguishable from all the many voyageurs who would descend upon the island with him.

  “You will anger the Great Spirit by sneaking around the island like a-se-bou the raccoon,” Red Fox warned, as if he’d sensed the direction of Pierre’s thoughts.

  “I’m just doing my part in the war,” Pierre replied. He hadn’t wanted to pick up a gun and fight. And because he was an important fur trader, no one had questioned his decision to stay off the battlefield. In fact, because of the relationships he’d already formed with the British over the past several years, none of the British officers had second-guessed his loyalty, even though he was an American citizen.

  “The raccoon is nothing but a thief,” Red Fox said, puffing out his chest and staring off into the distance. “It is no good to have your feet in two fires. Someday you will get burned.”

  Red Fox was one of the smartest men Pierre had ever met, but also one of the most superstitious. He believed every legend and lore that had been passed on to him from his people. And while Pierre had tried to speak to him of his God of mercy and love, Red Fox could not understand a God like his. And he certainly couldn’t understand Pierre’s part in the war, not when he himself didn’t know how he’d gotten mixed up with both sides.

  “I’m too smooth and quick to get burned,” Pierre said, slipping on his shirt. As the damp material slid over his head, his gaze landed on several men poking around his canoes.

  Not surprisingly, several other brigades had also stopped at the Straits to bathe before making an appearance on the island. The shore was lined with their birchbark canoes, loaded with the pelts they’d collected all winter, including many of the North West Fur Company voyageurs and their agent.

  Pierre stiffened and started toward them.

  Red Fox put a steadying hand on Pierre’s arm. “You cannot get attention of ladies with cuts and bruises on your face.”

  Pierre’s footsteps faltered. He’d only been jesting with Red Fox about winning the attention of the ladies. The truth was he’d put off his womanizing ways along with his drinking when God had turned him back around.

  If he were completely honest with himself, the real reason he wanted to clean himself up was because he wanted to look good when he finally stood before his maman.

  But he wouldn’t make such a favorable impression on Maman if he showed up with a black eye and busted lip, which was what he’d come away with the last time he’d gotten into a fight with a North West Company agent.

  “Stay away from my canoes.” Pierre forced himself to stop at the stern of one of his vessels. In the bright morning sun, the strong scent of pine rose up from the white birchbark his men had recently coated with fresh resin so that the canoes would be durable and waterproof for the last leg of their journey.

  The agent kept strolling, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his sagging trousers. Like most of the men, he was still shirtless, and his back was the purplish-red of a beet that one too many sunburns had stained over the years.

  Pierre quickl
y took stock of the ninety-pound bundles that had come hundreds of miles, through rapids, over portages, and past many dangerous currents. His brigade had risked their lives to haul the furs out of the wilderness. At the very least they deserved the rewards for the hard labor.

  And he was determined to do whatever he could to finish their journey in safety without any further problems from North West Company men who wanted to see free traders like himself put out of business altogether.

  “Leave my furs alone.” Pierre growled the words. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough to damage my business this year?”

  “Nope.” A grin turned up the corners of the agent’s lips, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth—at least what was left of his teeth. “I figure I still got some time to make you go crying home to your mama, where you belong.”

  Pierre gripped the closest paddle, decorated with a colorful pattern. The paddle was the arm of every voyageur, his life, safety, and pride, often inherited from a voyageur father, and almost always blessed by a local priest before leaving on a journey.

  Of course, his papa hadn’t given him his paddle.

  Red Fox moved next to Pierre, his dark eyes issuing another warning—the warning not to swing the paddle. “Do not fight. One day your belt will be heavy with the scalps of your enemies. But not today.”

  Pierre struggled against the urge to knock the agent flat on the ground. His men had become his family. The wilderness had become his home. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone push him out of doing what he loved. And he couldn’t let the North West Company strip his brigade of what was rightfully theirs, not after months of hard work.

  The agent ambled along the last of Pierre’s canoes as if he were taking a leisurely stroll instead of calculating how he could steal or destroy the cargo of furs.

  Pierre started forward, but Red Fox grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him backward. “Not today,” he said, firmer this time.