The ridgeline exploded with warriors. Ten. Twelve? No time to count. Heartsick and burning with white-hot rage, Mercy shoved off Matthew’s deadweight where he’d toppled sideways against her. She’d have to grieve later—if she lived that long.

As she bent to grab her gun, a rush of air grazed past her cheek. The thwack of an arrow pierced the canvas behind her. Having grabbed her gun, she snatched up Matthew’s, his fingers forever frozen in a desperate reach, then dove inside the wagon.

An arrow hissed behind her. Pain seared the top of her right shoulder. The tip ripped through fabric and flesh then stuck deep into a crate behind her. She hunkered down, working her body into a crevice where the cargo had shifted. A poor cover. A deadly one. But all she had for now.

“Rufus?” she hollered. “Rufus!”

No answer. Just the lethal sound of rocks cascading from the rushing tread of moccasins. Men breathing heavy on the hunt.

They were coming.

They were coming for her.

Ignoring the sharp burn in her shoulder, she primed the pan of Matthew’s gun and balanced the weapon on the crate next to her. Then she primed hers and clicked the hammer wide. Which way to aim? Front? Back? Clammy sweat dotted her brow. It was futile, this need of hers to fight, but she owed it to Matthew to take out at least a few of his killers.

Oh Matthew. She could yet hear his voice, grumbling with emotion. “’Tis more important in this life to make one person feel loved than to go around killing.”

Her grip on the gun slackened. He wouldn’t want her to kill for him. But she couldn’t sit here defenseless either. Perhaps if she could lure the warriors to the front of the wagon, she might have a chance to slip out the puckered hole in the rear and make a run for it. But what to use for a distraction?

Scrambling for an idea, she scanned the wagon’s contents. A wool blanket. Some rope. A shovel and a bucket. Maybe she could—too late.

A war hatchet sliced into the back canvas.

She turned and fired. A groaning gurgle followed.

So did the thud of feet climbing up to the front seat.

She threw down her gun and seized Matthew’s, hands shaking so much half the gunpowder jiggled out of the pan. Hold, hold. It wouldn’t do to spend her last shot on nothing but air.

The front canvas rippled. The whites of shiny eyes set deep in a band of black paint peered in and locked onto her.

Mercy pulled the trigger.

A flash. A fizzle. A misfire.

A slow grin slashed across the face of the warrior, and he advanced.

She scrambled back—and an arm snared her from behind, pulling her against a sweaty chest. Her gun fell, and she clawed at the thick arm holding her. A knife flashed, poised to split the flesh of her neck.

“Hunh-ha!” the man in front of her shouted.

The one holding her growled, a low roar that reverberated in her own chest.

But the knife slid away, and she was yanked out the back of the wagon, a captive of a nameless warrior whose face she couldn’t see. Another man lay flat on his back, eyes unseeing and a hole in his neck, just like Matthew. Had she done that?

Her stomach spasmed, and unstoppable tremors shook through her. She’d never killed a man before—and never would again. The startling violation of snatching what was only God’s to take slammed into her. She jerked her head aside and retched.

The man holding her let go, yanking the hat from her head as he did so. She dropped to her hands and knees and heaved until there was nothing left—then heaved some more.

The black-striped warrior hefted her up by her arm. Sunlight flashed off the ring in his nose and larger silver wheels on his ears as he bound her hands in front of her. She put up no struggle. What was the point? She’d already given her best fight.

And lost.

A thong cut tight into her wrists. Then a wider lash looped over her head and settled around her neck, connecting her to the black-painted man via a short lead. All the while, he studied her with narrowed eyes, some kind of recognition flashing deep within. But what? She’d never seen him before.

Had she?

With a sharp tug on the leather, he indicated she was to follow. He led her past the wagon, around natives hauling out crates and busting them open, and beyond the front seat where Matthew yet lay.

If only she could join him.

Running toward danger was nothing new. It was a way of life. For once, Elias was thankful for his years of rebellion. Any sane man would be putting distance between himself and a band of warriors—especially being unarmed. But he pressed ahead at top speed, straining for a glimpse of two wagons bumping along the road.

He did not slow until he reached the turnoff leading into the glade—and then he didn’t just slow. He stopped. So did his heart. Flattened weeds marked ruts through the vegetation. Deep, defined, and sickeningly fresh.

And a gunshot cracked a wicked report.

He was too late.

Or was he? He couldn’t credit Rufus with much sense, but Matthew and Mercy? Between the two of them, perhaps they had seen the danger and bailed. Hied themselves off into the woods and taken cover. It was a frail chance, wispy as spider webbing, but he wrapped his hands around it and refused to let go. If only belief alone would make it so.

Drawing upon every shadow-walking skill he’d honed, he backed away from the furrows and eased into the spring growth. Though full bloom was months off, enough greenery lent him concealment. Thank God it wasn’t winter.

He darted from tree trunk, to scrub fir, to dogwood shrub, head still throbbing, wrists still raw. A whiff of musk and sweat carried on the air, as did the clank of metal upon metal. Not much farther then.

With one eye on the ground to keep from a misstep, he edged as close as he dared to the clearing and crouched in a patch of toad lilies. Ahead, two wagons sat one in front of the other, barely past the tree line, but no sign of Mercy or Matthew. For the first time since the Indians had arrived, the heavy weight stealing his breath began to lift. Mayhap they had sensed the threat and escaped.

But when a tall native rounded the corner of the last wagon, strutting like a rooster, all air and hope whooshed out of his lungs. Mercy’s hat perched atop his shaved head. The old felt that she loved. The one she’d worn when he’d last seen her.

And blood splattered the man’s face.

Oh God, please don’t let that be Mercy’s.

He clenched his jaw to keep from roaring and started counting heads—tallying up just how many he could take down on his own with nothing but fists and rage. Two men threw out crates from inside the last wagon, where four others pried off the tops and emptied the contents. The devil wearing Mercy’s hat joined in. That made seven.

He jerked his gaze to the first wagon, where tatters of the canvas flapped in the breeze at the rear. One warrior lay unmoving on the ground, forgotten—for now—amongst a heap of open and abandoned crates. Near the second wagon, a pair of men had unbridled the horses and were leading them toward the rise.

Eight, nine, ten. Blast! Four or five men he might be able to ward off—and that was a huge stretch—but ten? He hadn’t felt this helpless since holding François’s blue-lipped body in his arms as he’d pulled him from the river…yet another time he’d been too late to be of any real use.

Shoving away the memory, he duckwalked closer and huddled behind a wildwood shrub. The leaves blocked his line of sight, but the shortened distance made it easier to distinguish their quiet words.

“White dogs! There is no treasure here.”

“English lips cannot help but lie. Their hearts are thick with deceit.”

“We are the fools, making a pact with pale-faced devils.”

“All is not loss, my brother. Even now Nadowa leads Black-Fox-Running’s daughter to camp. Let us return and see his glory walk.”

Some of the tension in his jaw slackened. It must be Mercy they spoke of, for he could believe nothing other than she was yet alive—maybe not for long—but breathing at least as long as it would take for the warrior named Nadowa to haul her into camp. For the first time in hours, a ghostly smile haunted his lips. He’d hate to be the man trying to drag her anywhere against her will.

He waited out the pillaging warriors, listening for the clanking of house-wares to cease. Eventually, after a final barrage of hateful epithets against the whites, he heard the sound of moccasins padding off. A few rocks clacked down the ridgeline, knocked loose by careless feet. Then the forest returned to nothing but birdsong and squirrels rustling about. Every muscle in him yearned to burst into a sprint and follow their trail, specifically Mercy and Nadowa’s. But prudence rooted him until he was certain no one had turned back or laid in wait for God knew what purpose.

Creeping out from behind the shrub, he paused and studied the glade. The wagons stood stripped naked save for the canvas coverings, one of them flapping in the breeze. Up on the ridge, no sign of movement. It was still a risk to expose himself to the clearing, but was not all of life a perilous gamble?

He skulked to the rear wagon, sitting in the late morning sun like a pile of bleached bones and just as devoid of life. No blood. No sign of struggle. He passed it by and moved on to the next.

The slashed canvas rippled. A dark patch of bloody grass cried up from the earth where the fallen warrior had lain. Judging by the flattened trail leading off from it, the war party had hauled their fellow fighter away with them. Weaving through a maze of upturned crates, he worked his way to the front…where he nearly dropped to his knees.

Stretched out like a slit-throated buck, the mighty ranger, Matthew Prinn, lay draped over the driver’s seat, an arrow pierced through his gullet. Elias staggered. That could’ve been him. He’d not been happy about Matthew tying his bonds so tight and cracking him in the head, but the man’s actions had saved his life.

Stunned, he lifted his face to the impossibly blue sky. “Oh God, bless that man and thank You. Once again You have provided in ways I do not deserve.”

His gaze snapped back to Matthew. Blackflies flitted near the wound, his glassy eyes, his gaping mouth. Elias swallowed back a burning ember of sorrow and remorse. As gruff as the ranger had been, he’d be sorely missed. The weeks they’d shared had gone a long way toward healing some of the raw wounds left from his grandfather’s death.

“Receive this man into Your arms, Lord,” he whispered.

He waved away the flies, wishing he had told Matthew everything, his true mission, and maybe even enlisted Matthew’s help. But too late now. Blowing out a long breath and then filling his lungs, he stared at the dead man’s chest. Matthew would never have such a pleasure again.

Nor did Elias have the pleasure of loitering.

He broke into a jog, dashed around to the other side of the wagon, and scrambled up to the seat, expecting to see Rufus’s corpse inside. An empty wagon bed stared back. Pivoting, he shaded his eyes, careful not to jostle Matthew’s repose. He scanned the glade from edge to edge. No more bodies sullied the grass. Apparently they had hauled off Rufus as well.

He lowered his hand, then bent to pull Matthew inside the wagon. Heaving the stiff body proved a challenge, and he regretted the way the ranger landed inside with a thud. It wasn’t much of a grave, but it was the best he could do for now. At least the man’s body wouldn’t be out in the open. He ran his fingers along Matthew’s shirt and down his legs, hoping to find a knife. Nothing. The Indians must’ve thought of that as well.

Sitting back on his haunches, Elias quickly rifled through his options. Truly, there were only two. Dig up that crate with the French weapon and hightail it out of here for Boston, saving countless lives in the process—or light out after the woman he loved.

He gasped. Love? Was that what this burning need firing along every nerve meant?

A groan rumbled in his throat. How could he risk the lives of an entire fort to go chasing after one woman?

How could he not?

Quickly calculating distance, time, and need, he came up with three days. He’d give it three days to find her, then turn around—even if he didn’t locate her.

Mind set, he scrambled out through the canvas hole. Though it grieved him to leave Matthew’s body, he jumped down to the ground. Time was something he could no longer afford to spend, even on respectful purchases. He trotted off toward the ridgeline and began scouting for telltale signs of passage, one question niggling all the while.

Who were the pale-faced devils who had bargained with the Indians for the treasure?