Mercy eased back on the reins, bringing the horses to a slow stop. They deserved a rest. So did she. Every muscle in her arms jittered from the harrowing crossing.

Dropping her hands to her lap, she leaned back against the canvas and closed her eyes, just as she’d done before they had crossed the Nowadaga. The sun beat warmer, the air smelled sweeter. Life seemed less burdensome. Why was it that her gratitude heightened only after a vexing experience? How much peace did she miss out on by appreciating a rainbow instead of valuing the rain beforehand? Should she not thank God for both?

The questions chafed. She’d not thought this much about God in a long time, not since she’d left behind her childhood. And Mother. Mercy flexed her fingers, working out the last of her tension and fighting the urge to reach for her locket. Elias was far too much like her mother in his spirituality—yet there was nothing soft about him. Nothing cowardly. Maybe—just maybe—faith did not have to mean weakness.

A scream of horses ended her contemplations, followed by men’s shouts. She set the brake and bolted from the wagon.

Dread pumped her legs as she tore back the way she’d come. Some kind of argument waged between Rufus and Elias, accompanied by the drone of Matthew, speaking calmly to squealing horses.

Her steps slowed as she descended the slope of the riverbank into chaos. Matthew held tight to the lead horse’s headstall. The others snorted and strained at their harnesses, trying to break free. And she didn’t blame them. Behind lay a cockeyed wagon, rear barely dragged out of the water and digging hard into the soft ground. Rufus had bailed from his seat and stood on the mucky bank, cussing at a half-drowned Elias.

She stopped, gaze fixed on the dislocated spokes—sticking out of the wheel weakened when they had taken Traverse Ridge. The peace of moments before vanished, replaced by a sickening twist in her belly.

This was her fault.

“Mercy!” Elias’s voice shook through her, and she yanked up her head.

He stood soaked to the skin beside Rufus near the rear of the wagon. “Grab the horses. We need Matthew to help haul these crates from the river.”

Without a word, she walked in a daze over to Matthew, the image of the spokes askew and the curve of defeat in Elias’s shoulders strong in her mind.

All Matthew’s shushings and “Easy now” murmurings had stilled most of the madness in the horses. Either that or the animals had figured out they no longer lugged a scrape-bottom, off-kilter wagon up a hill. But whichever, Matthew didn’t let go until she wrapped her fingers around the leather band on the lead horse’s head.

She peered into Matthew’s gray eyes. “Are you all right? No one’s hurt, are they?”

He shook his head. “No, girl. Thank the good Lord. Keep a firm grip—on this horse and yourself. They take off running, you let go, you hear?”

Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she nodded. If she’d never suggested that ridge shortcut, if she’d just kept her mouth shut, they wouldn’t be in this sorry situation.

Most of the crates had been strewn along the bank when the horses charged off in a frenzy. One crate remained on the wagon bed. Only three of the ten had landed in the water, so it didn’t take long for the men to lug them up to the muddy shore. Pots and pans, gold bars, and some opened packets of trade silver sparkled in the shallows, contents they would need to collect before nightfall. The rest of the flotsam was likely already a mile downstream, pulled by the current.

Stroking the velvety nose of the horse to soothe the beast and herself, she waited until the men caught their breath. “Now what?”

Matthew pulled off his hat and flicked the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “We’ll have to unload the other wagon and bring it back down to collect as much of this mess as we can.”

Elias nodded. “After we unload that, we will come back for the broken wagon.”

Turning aside, Rufus spit on the ground, then jabbed his finger her way. “This is your doin’. We get a passel of Indians breathin’ down our neck, you remember that.”

In two strides, Elias planted himself between Rufus and her. “Leave off. This is your only warning.”

But it was too late. Rufus’s accusation heaped another coal onto the fire of her own guilt, the shame of which would burn for a very long time.

Matthew jammed his hat back atop his head. “You’re doing a fine job with the horses, Mercy, so just stay here. We’ll be back with an empty wagon to collect the rest.”

The men stomped off, but Rufus’s indictment stayed. He was right. If Onontio’s warning held true and a band of Wyandot came along, they would be easy to find and too small in number to fight back. But what was to be done for it now? How could she possibly make the situation better?

Slowly, she released her hold of the bridle, cooing all the while. She inched from the horse, testing the skittishness of the leader, but by now they had all discovered the green shoots breaking up the ground in patches. The pull and chomp of well-earned provender played an accompaniment to the steady rhythm of the rushing water.

From this angle, she viewed more clearly the devastation where the land sloped into the river. Contents from the crates littered a wide swath of mud—and what contents they were! She’d already seen the household goods that had been stored in the top half of each crate, but she’d not imagined so much gold, so many packages of trade silver. She couldn’t begin to guess at the value. No wonder Elias and Matthew were so bent on getting this load to Fort Edward. If anyone discovered them with this much treasure, their throats would be slit before they could holler.

A shiver shimmied across her shoulders, and she forced her gaze to move on. Nearby, a fallen wooden box wasn’t too damaged, though it was mostly empty. If she dragged it down to the water’s edge, she could at least begin collecting what had spilled.

Treading on light feet so as not to scare the horses, she picked her way down the bank. Near the toe of her moccasin, a gold bar lay half-embedded in the muck. She bent to retrieve it—and was surprised at the weight. It took two hands to pry it out and heave it into the crate. The linen-wrapped packages of trade silver weren’t any lighter or easier to free from the suction of wet earth. Eventually though, she rinsed each item off and filled the box. Now to drag it up a ways.

Planting herself uphill, she grabbed the edge with two hands and pulled. The thing didn’t budge. If anything, the bottom edge dug deeper into the muck.

But she wouldn’t be thwarted. Sucking in a huge breath, she grasped the crate’s side yet again, and this time she lifted before she pulled. The wood moved, but not much, so she grunted and strained for all she was worth—which by now wasn’t much.

The momentum did not mix well with the slick ground. The box lifted but her feet slipped. The crate crashed. Pain exploded in her left foot, shooting agony up her leg. One hundred fifty pounds of heavy metal smashed her toes against a rock, trapping her.

She let out a wail that wouldn’t be stopped.

Elias trotted back to the river, leaving Matthew and Rufus to turn around the empty wagon. That broken wheel would set them back days…days he didn’t have to spare. Hopefully Matthew was a better wheelsmith than him, for he had no experience. He was about to turn back and ask him when a cry keened from the river, loud as a scream from a red fox.

Mercy!

He sprinted, wishing to God he held a tomahawk in his grip. Even so, weapon or not, if anyone harmed her, he’d kill. Fury colored the world blood red as he scanned for movement.

Past the horses, by the end of the broken wagon, Mercy hunched on the riverbank, holding her leg. A crate hid the bottom half of her skirt from view.

Taking the bank half-sliding, he skidded to a stop next to the box—fully loaded. He crouched and lifted the crate. She lurched back. As soon as she was free, he dropped the box and scooped her up. Even with her wet skirts, she weighed hardly more than a feather tick. Cradling her against his chest, he hauled her up to level ground, then set her down.

Her eyes pinched shut, trapping her in a world of private pain. No tears cut tracks down her cheeks, nor did she cry out anymore. Still, the single scream she’d let out earlier would haunt him in nightmares to come.

“This is going to hurt, and I regret it, but it has got to be done.” He hunkered down near her foot and, as gently as possible, lifted her mucky leg so that her shoe rested in his lap. Ignoring propriety, he pushed up her gown to gain a better look. Stockings, torn and dirty, covered a shapely leg, thankfully not bent or crushed. She must have taken the full brunt of the weight on her foot.

She didn’t make a sound as he unlaced her moccasin. She didn’t swoon or flinch. She just sat, grasping handfuls of her skirt into white-knuckled fists, eyes still closed but face resolute.

He tugged on the heel of her shoe and slid it off. When it caught on the end of her toes, she sucked in a breath—he did too. Blood soaked a stain into her gray stockings. That fabric had to come off. Now.

“Mercy, this is going be hard, but I need you to take off your hose.”

Her eyes blinked open, either from shock or anger, he couldn’t say. Without a word, she released her handfuls of skirt and reached for her bodice. A blade appeared, shiny and sharp in the late afternoon sun.

His brows rose. No wonder she hadn’t feared traveling with him or any other man. Between her knife and Matthew’s overseeing, the woman was thoroughly protected.

She bent forward and sliced a line through the fabric around her ankle. Breathing hard, she leaned back and tucked her knife away.

“Go on.” Her voice shook. “Do what needs to be done.”

He gritted his teeth. Would to God he could take the pain for her. Bit by bit, he peeled the fabric down from her ankle. No swelling there. No odd angles or broken skin. The weight must’ve hit farther on.

He pulled the thin wool past the arch of her foot, steady, using a constant force, and faltered only once—when the stocking stuck to the bloodied pulp of her last two toes.

His chest tightened. That had to hurt.

Horses’ hooves plodded behind him. The grind of wheels. Matthew’s voice. “What happened?”

Before Elias could answer, he heard the sound of Matthew’s moccasins hitting the ground. “So help me, Dubois, if you hurt that girl—”

“Enough!” Mercy cried. “Your infighting is making me sick.”

“Easy,” Elias whispered to her as he would a skittish mare. Then he glanced over his shoulder. “I need some water here. Mercy crushed her toes.”

Matthew loped off.

Elias turned back to the woman. Thankfully, now that her foot was free, color seeped back into her cheeks. A light wind teased a runaway lock of dark hair across one of those cheeks, and the urge to brush it back tingled in his hand. He curled his fingers tight, annoyed by the base response at such a moment.

“What were you doing?” His voice was flat, even to his own ears.

Her big brown eyes stared into his. “I thought to gather some of the spilled contents.”

He frowned. “Gathering is one thing, but trying to move a full crate on your own? What were you thinking?”

Her eyes narrowed. So did her tone. “Clearly I wasn’t.”

“Well,” he sighed. “It could have been worse. One—maybe two—toes look to be broken, but thank God it is not your ankle.” He allowed a small smile. “You should be kicking Rufus’s hind end in no time.”

Matthew returned and handed him a canteen. “We’ll start loading. Join us as you’re able. But you”—he shifted a cancerous gaze to Mercy—“stay put.”

She frowned at Matthew’s retreating back. Though she said nothing, Elias got the distinct impression that any other man who’d just told her what to do would be wearing that knife of hers through the back.

He uncorked the metal flask. “How long have you two been together?”

“Three years,” she murmured.

“Three? Have you been tangled in this war for that long?”

She nodded, loosening more hair in the process.

Setting down the cork, he shifted her foot so that the water would run off into the grass instead of his lap. Best to busy her tongue to keep her mind from the pain he was about to inflict. “Why did Bragg even consider taking on a woman?”

He poured a stream over her toes with one hand, the other supporting and rubbing off bits of mud with his thumb.

“I’m good at what I do.” Her voice strained and her nostrils flared, but she kept talking. “My sight is a gift. And no one expects a woman scout. A messenger, yes, but never a scout.”

He grunted. No argument with that, for he’d never run across such.

Dousing her foot afresh, he bent and studied her toes. Now that the blood was gone, the damage was easier to assess. The little toe, as suspected, was likely broken, already swollen to nearly twice its size. She’d lose the nail for sure. The toe next to it pulsed an angry shade of deep red, but it wasn’t as puffed up. More like a deep bruise. She’d live to fight another day—and soon.

He set down the canteen and faced her. “War does not last forever, thank God. What will you do when the fighting is done?”

Her brown eyes glazed over, but this time he guessed it wasn’t from pain. Gently, he resettled her foot on his lap and dried off what he could with the hem of his hunting frock.

“I suppose I shall cross that creek when I come to it,” she said at last.

His gaze shot to hers. “There is no man waiting for you on the other side?”

Her lips curved, sunlight painting them a rosy hue. “I’ve been told I am a handful…not to mention stubborn. Even were I to want a man, not many are up for the job.”

While spoken in jest, her words sank low in his gut, and a strange urge rose to meet such a challenge. He cleared his throat, then shrugged off his hunting frock and balled up the fabric. He set the lump on the ground and eased her foot to rest atop it. “Let this dry off while I help load those crates. I will bind that toe when I am finished.”

Her chin jutted out. “I am fully capable of binding my own foot.”

Proud woman, as stubborn as she was beautiful. He scowled. “Just promise me that when I am down there loading”—he hitched a thumb over his shoulder—“I won’t turn around and see you next to me, lugging up a crate.”

A small smile flickered on her face. “You have my word.”

It was a small victory, her giving him her word—so why did it make his heart thump hard against his ribs?

Rising, he turned toward the task at hand. Would that fixing the broken wheel would prove as easy a conquest.