Night faded like a bruise, the predawn darkness lightening in increments from black to indigo, painting the world in deep blue. Mercy passed the cluster of men discussing the surest way to cross the river on her way to the front wagon—Emmeline and Nathan’s, poised to venture across the Nowadaga. James and Jonas huddled on the driver’s seat, likely scheming some kind of trouble despite the early hour. She hauled herself up and nodded them a greeting, though neither responded.

“Emmeline?” she called as she crawled through the canvas opening. “I came to say goodbye.”

Inside, the new mother and her babe reclined atop crates heaped with blankets. Emmeline held out her hand. “I was hoping you would. I shall miss you.”

“And I, you.” The truth of her words hit a soft spot in her heart, and she sucked in a breath. She had enjoyed this woman’s company.

Drawing near, she smiled and clasped the woman’s cold fingers. “You keep that little one fed and warm, and she’ll grow up just fine.”

“Thank you. I will.” Emmeline squeezed her hand. “I’m sure it won’t be long till you hold a babe in your arms.”

Her smile faded. Emmeline was wrong. Her arms would not cradle a wee one anytime soon, but maybe someday…Her lips flattened. What a ridiculous notion.

Leaning closer, she kissed the babe on her downy cheek then let go of Emmeline’s grasp. “Godspeed to you all.”

“I shall never forget you, Mercy Dubois.”

As always, the false name went down sideways, and she swallowed. “Neither shall I forget you, Emmeline.”

Working her way around in the confined space, she wriggled back out the front canvas hole and faced James and Jonas. “You boys behave yourself. You have a mother and sister to look after, you hear?”

Jonas frowned at her. “Mr. Elias already told us that.”

She hid a smile. As much as she hated to credit a traitor, Elias would make a fine father one day. “Then mind what he said, and mind your father as well. Go on inside now.”

The boys scrambled past her, bickering over who got to peek out the back canvas hole. She climbed down, emotions swirling. In the few days she’d spent with Emmeline, she’d grown to like the woman. Given more time, they might’ve been great allies.

Matthew, Rufus, Elias, and the Shaw men still stood near the horses, though as she passed by, she noted the conversation had moved on to final route advice. None lifted their eyes to her. Just as well. When had a man ever taken a woman’s word on directions?

Eight paces past them, she stopped even with the front of Amos Shaw’s wagon. Mary sat atop, bundled in a gray woolen shawl and long-brimmed bonnet. She stared, as usual, but this time not unseeing. Had the real Mary Shaw left behind the netherworld of bleak sorrow and ventured back into her own body?

Mercy smiled up at her. Indeed, the woman’s eyes shone clear, and a faint flicker of a smile curved the edges of her lips.

Lifting her hand, Mercy spoke a blessing, wishing with everything in her that it would come true. “Skennen, Mrs. Shaw. Skennen.”

The deep blue light left over from night faded as the morning sun rose. Time for their own departure soon enough. With a nod to the woman, she set off up the road to camp, where their wagons sat at the ready, aimed east instead of west. It wouldn’t hurt to scout ahead a bit, now that the coming sun lessened the shadows. She’d grab her gun, poke around, then swing back to rejoin the others as they returned from helping the Shaws cross the river.

Holding on to the wagon’s side, she hefted herself up to the seat—then froze. Gooseflesh prickled hundreds of bumps along her arms. A scalp lock with a turkey feather yet attached to the bloody skin was draped on the bench.

She snapped into action, grabbing her gun from inside and hitting the ground with silent feet. A trail of moccasin prints led to the wood line, and she lifted her gaze. Shutting out the morning chill, the shush of wind, the trill of birds, she narrowed her eyes and stared, hard. A man stepped out from behind a sycamore trunk, armed with bow, arrows, tomahawk, and war club.

A mountain of a man.

She shouldered her gun and broke into a run. “Onontio!”

But her steps faltered as she drew near her brother. Beneath the red and black colors of war painted on his face, a gash split his flesh from temple to chin. One eye was purpled shut. Blood darkened his breechclout, spreading from thigh to knee on his deerskin leggings. By the looks of it, that scalp lock on the wagon seat had been bought at a great price.

“You’re hurt!” she cried.

He lifted his chin, smelling of sweat and battle. “I live.”

Proud man. Proud, stupid man. What had he gotten himself into? A frown weighted her brow. “What happened?”

“I came for you with a dark tale when a snake crossed my way.” Murder glimmered in his eyes. “The Wyandot snake is no more.”

“Only one?”

He nodded.

“Not a scout then.” Shoving loose hair out of her eyes, she thought hard. A lone man. An enemy. Why would a single warrior venture so close to their camp when—Of course. The circles carved into the lichen. She stared up at her brother. “A messenger. What do the people hear? What do you know of what might happen in two days?”

“I know nothing.” Onontio’s face hardened to granite. “And our people are no more.”

The words skittered about in the air like a swarm of gnats, ones she’d like to swipe away. “What are you saying?” she whispered.

“After warning you, I returned home.” The cut of his jaw slanted grim. “To death and ash.”

“But Father?” She shook her head, a useless act to ban the black thoughts that would not be stopped. “Surely not Rake’niha!”

She grabbed his arm, hoping, wishing, needing to know that what she suspected surely wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. Not Black-Fox-Running. Never him.

Onontio nodded swift and sharp, the movement cutting like a razor-edged blade—slicing her heart in two.

No, this couldn’t be happening. Grief slammed against her chest, seeking a crevice to breach, but she would not let it in. One tear, half a whimper, and she’d be undone.

She lifted her chin. “Who did this? Why?”

For a moment, Onontio’s nostrils flared. Whatever went on in his mind could not be good. “After severing ties with Bragg, Rake’niha allied with Johnson, promising our men to fight against the blue coats’ Fort Niagara. Before the traveling sun, a raiding party of Ehressaronon swept down from the north. None in our village survived.”

Despite her hold on him, she swayed, and his other arm shot out, balancing her. The world turned watery. She blinked, fighting against tears, swallowing back thick pain. She’d always known there’d be graves coming. Darkness coming. Heartbreak. But not now. Not yet. Suddenly she knew how Mary Shaw felt.

After a few deep breaths, though everything in her screamed to plow into him and weep against his chest, she pulled away. She had to be strong, leastwise in front of her brother, for he shared the same hollow ache that carved a gouge in her breast.

She blinked up at him. “What will you do?”

“I will hunt them down.” Blood marred his words, dripping from the slash on his cheek to his lips.

Another piece of her heart broke off. He didn’t stand a chance. “You are but one man, my brother.”

He flung back his shoulders, swiping away the blood from his mouth. “That is of no account.”

“I can’t lose you too!” Her ragged voice ruined the sanctity of the early morn, staining the birth of the new day with the portent of death.

He reached out, his big thumb running rough over her cheek, leaving behind the dampness of his own lifeblood. “Our paths were meant to split, aktsi:’a. You have walked between two worlds, but no more. You must choose life. Prinn is a good long knife. Go with him.”

Her shoulders sagged. There was no way she could tell him Matthew had plans of his own to leave her. Her brother had enough to bear without the thought of what would become of her.

“Ó:nen Kahente.” He pulled back his hand. “Tsi Nen:we Enkonnoronhkhwake.”

“Tsi Nen:we—” Her throat closed. Looking at her brother for what might be the last time on this side of heaven, she choked. He looked so much like a younger Black-Fox-Running, it was like speaking to her father. A sob welled up, begging for release. She’d never get another chance to tell her father she loved him forever. And in truth, this just might be her last shared endearment with Onontio.

She sucked in a breath and forced out a clear voice. “Tsi Nen:we Enkonnoronhkhwake, Onontio. Ó:nen.”

Their gazes locked in a last goodbye; then he turned and stalked into the woods. As he walked away, a shiver blew through her soul like a cold moan. She stared, long and hard, until even her keenest eyesight could no longer distinguish his strong, broad shoulders. Would she ever see him again?

Loss stretched out bony arms and pulled her to its bosom, crushing her in a chokehold of an embrace. Despite her resolve to stay strong, to be brave, she dropped to the ground.

And wept.

Water squished between heel and sole in Elias’s left moccasin. He’d have to ask Matthew tonight for some extra grease to stop up that leaky seam. But for now, he’d yank off the shoe and let it dry while he drove.

Morning light blazed a halo above the rear of the wagon as he approached. It hadn’t taken long to help the Shaws cross the river, especially now that the waters ran low and slow. But it had still taken time—time they didn’t have. Time he didn’t have. If all went well and he stole off just before they veered north toward Fort Edward, he’d still have a hard go of it to reach Boston. Four days of tough riding. Possibly five. The enormity of the undertaking crashed down on him like a rockslide. So many things could go wrong. For a moment, he gave in to hanging his head with the weight of responsibility—

And saw fresh tracks leading away from the wagon.

He dropped to a crouch, his gaze following the indents of two sets of footprints. The first sank deeper into the ground. A big man, then, shod in moccasins much like the ones he wore.

He narrowed his eyes and studied the other set, but it didn’t take long before his breath hitched. The length was short, with a sharp solid curve digging heavy on the right side. Mercy’s step. Nearly on top of the other set of prints. Apparently she’d followed someone into the woods, but with no sign of struggle.

Rising, he stared into the maze of brilliant greens and browns. Wherever she went, she’d gone willingly.

He pivoted and faced the wagon behind his, lifting his palm toward Rufus. “Hold on.”

Rufus turned aside and spit off the side of the wagon, then spit out a curse as well. “We ain’t got time to be waiting!”

Elias frowned. He knew that better than anyone. Strange though to see Rufus ruffled up about anything other than the next meal.

“This will not take long.” He strode off, glad to leave behind the sour-faced complainer. It was a wonder the young man had lasted this long as a regular without a cashiering.

The trail was easy enough to follow, with no trace of care being taken to cover the tracks. Ahead, twenty yards into the forest, a small shape took on form, bent low to the ground. At twelve yards, he distinguished a dark stripe splitting that shape—a long, dark braid—and he upped his pace. He stopped only steps away from where Mercy curled over in a patch of flattened trillium. Alone. Was she sick?

“Mercy?” he murmured so as not to startle her. “What ails you?”

She jerked upright, the cloth across her shoulders stretched taut. She said nothing, nor did she face him.

“Are you ill?” he tried again.

“I…I am fine. Give me a moment.”

The hesitation, the stutter, the slight tremble shimmying down her backbone all twisted a knife in his chest. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

In two strides he bent and gripped her shoulders, pulling her to her feet. Before he could turn her around, she wrenched from his grasp and scuttled away, picking up her gun where she’d dropped it.

He froze, fully prepared for her to swing the barrel straight for his chest, but she did not. She just stood there, cradling her gun, breathing hard—and that kindled a fear in him more terrible than staring down a cold, gray muzzle.

“Mercy, look at me. I would see your face.”

“Go.” Her voice shook, throaty and unsteady. “I will take first scout.”

“Matthew is already on it.” Using all his skills at shadow walking, he approached her on silent feet, stopping inches behind her. “Now, turn around.”

She whirled, eyes red, wet stains yet shiny on her smooth cheeks. “Go away!”

The tension in his jaw loosened. This she-devil he could work with. “Your brother brought news?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her dark gaze narrowing. “What would you know of that?”

“I followed two sets of prints from the wagon to the wood’s edge. Yours and those deep and long enough to belong to a big man, just like your brother. I did not figure you would go willingly with anyone else.”

She sighed, mournful as a dove. The nod of her head looked as if it took all her strength—and more. Sweet mercy! What awful news had the man brought her?

He looked past her, expecting the painted shapes of warriors to spring out at any moment. “Are we in danger?”

“Life is danger.” The emptiness in her tone chilled the sun’s warmth. No one should sound so hollow.

He cut his gaze back to her. “What happened?”

Her lower lip quivered. A single fat tear fell, riding the curve of her cheek. “Our father—” Her voice broke.

So did his usual reserve. The woman was naught but a sorrow-filled waif, gripping a gun too big and a grief too great. He opened his arms, offering, hoping, and surprisingly willing to take on her pain instead of running the other way. He hardly knew himself anymore.

And that was a very good thing.

Mercy blinked, loosing a fresh burst of tears—then dropped her gun and plowed into him. He staggered from the force of her assault, her weeping, her ragged cries. Wrapping his arms around her, he held on through the storm.

“My father is gone,” she wailed into his chest. “My village…and now my brother. There is nothing for me to go home to.”

Her pain lanced through his heart, making it hard to distinguish from his own.

“I hardly know the meaning of the word home,” he mumbled against the top of her head, more to himself than to her. He knew the horrid feeling all too well, the sudden ripping away of the ground he’d always stood on. The plummeting sensation of not knowing where to land, how to land. If he’d land. All the emotions of losing his mother as a young lad, the regret of not making peace with his grandfather before he died, barreled back, unexpectedly vivid.

He clung to Mercy every bit as much as she pressed into him.

Eventually her breathing evened, and she stilled. It wouldn’t be long before she pulled away, but for now, he cherished the trusting way she leaned against him, drawing from his strength. Would that they might stand here forever, him bearing her up, her warming his arms. A perfect fit. Like none he’d ever known.

“Dubois! Where are you?”

Rufus’s voice hit him from behind, shattering the moment. Mercy jerked away and retrieved her gun, the loss of her from his arms near to unbearable.

He blew out a sigh, letting go of the gift. He’d learned long ago that nothing beautiful lasted, save for eternity. “Did your brother know anything of that sign we found last night?”

“No. He killed the man before he could talk.” She glanced at him as she passed by. “But he was a Wyandot.”

Once again he gazed at the endless stretch of trees. Wyandot. Had that message been for him? Because if it was, then he really had trouble. Good thing they would put plenty of time and space between this place and themselves by the time two days were spent.

If the new wagon wheel proved roadworthy.