Elias had a split-second glimpse of a musket barrel before he snapped his gaze upward and stared into cold black eyes. Violence lived there—but so did intelligence. Slowly, he lifted his hands.

“My brother, do not do this.” Elias spoke in Wyandot. “I am unarmed. Come with me.” He jerked his head toward the elderberries.

The Indian—Running Wolf?—stared back, impassive.

Rufus and the general’s feet pounded the ground, growing closer.

“Why should I?” The man spoke in the people’s language as well.

Elias gritted his teeth. Exactly. Why? He’d need a whopper of a reason, for clearly this man sold out to the highest bidder, to have aligned himself with the Braggs…and therein might lie the solution. He’d have to up the ante.

“I offer you something more honorable than the tainted trinkets of the English dogs. Hear me out.”

Footsteps thudded impossibly loud. Rufus swore. The general wheezed. Any minute now they would be swinging around the back of the wagon.

Running Wolf was a rock-hard shadow, not speaking, not moving.

Sweat trickled between Elias’s shoulder blades. Was this where he’d die? Shot down in front of Mercy?

God, please.

The gun barrel lowered—slightly—but it was all the affirmation Elias needed. He sprinted toward the safety of the hedge, the warrior behind. It was a compromising position, running with a loaded weapon at his back, but if the man were going to kill him, he’d have done it by now—and may still if Elias didn’t come up with something better to offer him.

Think. Think!

They tore into the cover of shadows just as Rufus’s voice rang out, “Ain’t nothin’ back here, Pa. Blasted Indian musta stumbled to the woods to take a—”

“Spare me the details,” the general gruffed out.

Elias turned to Running Wolf and—heedless of his better judgment—offered the only bargain he could think of. “If you bring those two men in to Fort Edward, you will get more than gold. You will get a trade, for they are wanted by the English for murder, thievery, and abandonment. Is not the life of Six Fingers worth more than anything the whites can promise you?”

The duplicity of what he suggested tasted like ashes. Six Fingers was a scoundrel of an Indian, and he’d been glad when he heard the villain had been captured. But if freeing the one gained him his own freedom, the lives of so many more would be spared.

The man narrowed his eyes. “Six Fingers has been captured?”

“Why do you think I am here? I was sent to tell you this.” Inwardly, he winced. That was a stretch.

“By who?”

“Red Bear.”

And that was an outright lie—one that grieved him to his core. Oh Lord, forgive me. Again and again and—

An ululating screech ripped a hole in the quiet, coming from the direction of the road. The cry of a warrior…a woman warrior.

Mercy.

His own cry caught in his throat. What the deuce was the woman doing? Why attract attention to herself?

The crack of a musket fired, and then he knew.

She was drawing fire away from him and doing a blasted good job of it.

Another shot split the night.

The sharp report reverberated in the air, shaking Elias to the marrow of his bones. Flay the woman for such courage!

He speared the warrior with a scowl. “Go, now! Before they reload. This is your chance to vanquish those men and free Six Fingers.”

The warrior wheeled about.

So did he—but in the opposite direction. He raced to the road and crouch-ran across it, keeping below the line of sight should Running Wolf change his mind and once again join with the Braggs. Speeding along the side farthest from the wagon, he swept the road with a feverish gaze. God help him. If he saw a dark-haired waif spread out on that dirt, there’d be no holding him back.

Across the road, men’s voices raged. Another shot rang out. Rufus screamed. Elias used the noise to his advantage, rustling faster along the underbrush. Maybe Running Wolf would have only one man to bring in.

No matter. The only thing of value now was finding Mercy—or not. The thought of seeing her body crumpled and lifeless stabbed him in the chest.

The pouch with the poisoned weapon bounced against his back, but he did not slow until he searched well beyond the makeshift camp. No body slumped in a black shadow on the road. No Mercy. Sucking in a deep breath, he pivoted to retrace his steps back to where they had left Livvy with the horses. If Mercy was there, safe and whole, he just might kill her himself for taking such a harebrained risk. But if she wasn’t…

His breath stuck in his throat. If she’d been hit and was losing her life’s blood, lying cold somewhere in the woods, he’d never forgive himself.

“Livvy? Elias?” Mercy barreled into the brush, feeling her way more than seeing. Good thing they had picked the stand of white birch to hunker down in, so starkly did the trunks contrast with the night shadows.

“Over here, Miss Mercy.”

She worked her way toward the girl’s voice, barely spying her before she tripped over Livvy’s legs. “Is Elias here?”

The useless question flew from her lips before she could stop it. Nor could she keep from peering around the flattened area where Livvy had stamped about—but no dark-haired man graced the small clearing. Of course it would take Elias longer to get here than her. She knew it in her head—but her heart still hoped to find him safe.

“I thought he was with you.” There was a shiver in Livvy’s voice.

She sank next to the girl, drinking in a lungful of damp air, trying not to tremble herself. “He is not.”

Curling up her knees, she wrapped her arms about them and dropped her head. Had Elias gotten away? Or had one of those shots punched the life clear out of his body? And if so, how would she ever breathe again? For that was what he was now. So much a part of her she could hardly distinguish where she ended and he began.

A warm hand patted her arm. “Don’t fret, Miss Mercy. I’ve been praying the whole time. No matter what happens, God is still sovereign.”

The girl’s faith put her own to shame. If Elias didn’t come back, would she even have a faith at all? Her shoulders slumped with the question. It was hard to believe in a God who took as frequently as He gave. Yet not impossible, for the fingers pressing on her sleeve declared such an unyielding trust a reality. Oh, to own such a childlike confidence.

Keep me tethered to You, Lord…no matter what.

Her throat closed with the immensity of such a request—but she did not take it back. Not one word.

Livvy pulled her hand away and settled down on the ground. Mercy wished for a blanket she might throw over the girl’s small form. But all she could do was scoot closer to her, sharing some of her body heat.

She tuned her ears to listen for the slightest hint of Elias’s return. Far off, the eerie howl of coyotes sounded. Nearby, the grass rustled. A field mouse or two, most likely. The skip of a small pebble came from near the road.

And she shot like a musket ball to her feet.

Five steps later, she launched into Elias’s open arms and buried her face against his chest.

The scruff of his beard tickled her brow as he bent close and whispered, “Are you hurt?”

Unwilling to pull away, she shook her head, inhaling his scent of smoke and leather and heated flesh.

“And you?” she murmured.

“No.”

Then he released her. Just like that. Taking his warmth and strength with him.

She staggered from the sudden loss and peered up into his face. The first pale light of a lethargic moon broke free of a cloud, brushing over the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips, and a glower that would make a grown man retreat.

“What kind of foolish deed was that? Purposely drawing fire.” He yanked off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair, then slapped it back on before the growl of his voice had a chance to fade.

Suddenly she was a little girl again, facing her father’s wrath for joining the men on a hunt. She swallowed, weak in the knees. Elias was right of course. It had been a dangerous idea.

“You might have been killed!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved his face into hers. “You hear me? Those men were aiming for you. You, Mercy! You could have been shot.”

“So could you, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it.” She still couldn’t. A tremor jittered across her shoulders, and she breathed out low, “How am I to live in a world without you?”

Elias deflated, pressing his forehead against hers. “Woman, I swear you are going to be the death of me. Please, do not ever do that again.”

She matched her breathing to his. A small thing, but one that linked her to him. “Will there be a need? Are we finished with the Braggs?”

“Aye.” He pulled back his head, his teeth bright against his dark beard. “Justice will be served, and by the hand of a Wyandot no less.”

Her jaw dropped. By all that was holy, how had he managed that? “What did you do?”

“Let’s just say that it is a good thing I speak the language.”

She couldn’t help but smile back. “You never stop surprising me.”

“I should hope not.” His hands slid from her shoulders to her back, drawing her next to his body. His mouth came down sweet and slow, lingering on hers so long, a warm ache pulsed through her.

“Promise me one thing?” he whispered against her lips.

“Hmm?” she murmured.

“That you will never stop surprising me.”