A Warrior’s Heart by Misty M. Beller

11

A fresh wave of determination rose inside Brielle, and she leveled a firm look on Evan. “Now you understand why it’s so important that we not let you leave until we know what you came for. In the past, we allowed outsiders in, but that trust took the lives of my mother and five other women. One man’s arm had to be removed to save the rest of him. Marcellus’s father has no feeling below his waist.” She pressed a hand to her own belly to mark the spot.

Then she squared her shoulders. “Tell me. Why have you come? What is it you want from us?”

A flash of uncertainty slid through his gaze—there and gone so fast, maybe she imagined it. But she spent far too much time watching for the flick of a deer’s ear to tell her it had caught her scent, or a flash of movement in the brush to signal a rabbit attempting to flee. During the longer winters, even a rabbit was a precious commodity to fill their hungry bellies. She’d honed her eyes and instincts to see the smallest flash of movement and act in an instant.

His gaze had shuttered now, leaving her to ponder what that uncertainty had meant. He must be deciding how much to reveal.

She waited. If he wouldn’t speak at all, she could prompt him by asking exactly where he came from. She knew so little about the American colonies, or rather states, as Evan had told Leonard. But she would press for details until she had a clear picture of where he was from and what that government was like now.

But Evan spoke before she had to decide how to begin. “I suppose the first thing you should know is that I’m not an Englishman.”

The words were so far from what she expected, she had to blink to take in what he meant. But even then, his statement wasn’t clear. Was he French, then? Why did he not have a French accent?

“I’m an American. We fought a war decades ago to be free from England’s tyranny. We’re the United States of America now, not colonies. American citizens, not English.”

Now his meaning made sense, but she strained to remember about the group that had attacked them all those years ago. Had they known for sure those men were from England? Or could they have been Americans? A dozen years before, the war Evan spoke of had already taken place. America had already been states, a country of their own. Her father and the others in Laurent hadn’t known of those changes back then.

She studied him. “If what you say is true, I’m not sure whether those who attacked us were from England or from your American states. You all speak the same language?”

He nodded. “But most of us speak it a little different than the fellows in England.”

He reached for a strand of hair on the fur underneath him. “England still has control of the Canadian colonies. And they’ve been itching to move down on us again. These last three years, America’s been at war with England for a second time. They’ve riled the Indians and have some of the tribes fighting on their side.”

She squinted. “Indians? You mean the Dinee?”

Now it was his turn to scratch his brow in confusion. “The natives. The bronze-skinned people who were on the land before the colonies were settled. We have lots of different tribes in the States and the territories to the west. You might have other tribes up here.”

She nodded. That made sense. But there were a few other pieces missing in the picture he painted. “What of the French? Do they not have colonies in New France anymore?”

“France had to give most of its lands to England when they lost the Seven Years’ War.” He tipped his head as he eyed her. “Maybe it would be easier if you tell me when your people were cut off from civilization. I can do my best to fill in the gaps of what’s happened since then. What’s the last thing you know about?”

She’d already said so much; this last detail wouldn’t give him further knowledge that he could use to harm them. Of course, he could tell her anything about the world beyond and she wouldn’t know whether he spoke the truth. She’d have to keep that in mind and weigh his words and actions as he spoke.

“We’ve been here just over a century. My great-great-grandfather helped cut our homes from the original caves. What I’ve always been told was that New France lies to the east and the British colonies south of that. Thirteen of them. France holds more colonies somewhere below them.”

He nodded, and his brow wrinkled. “Well, then. I’ve told you most of the big changes. Those French colonies to the south of the states were actually sold to America about a decade ago. President Jefferson bought them as part of the Louisiana Purchase. As for New France, as you call it, the British own it now. The land is split between Upper Canada and Lower Canada along the Ottawa River, although Upper Canada’s actually a bit south and west, but it’s the way the river runs.”

She sorted through the facts, trying to cipher out her questions. Could all this be true? None of it seemed like something he would fabricate.

And none of it seemed to have any bearing on why he’d come here.

He was giving so much detail that he must realize she was trying to determine whether she could trust him or not. She should press on now that she had him talking. Better to learn more about his government. “What of your land? How far away did you say it was?”

“Over three months on horseback. From my home, that is. I went west until I passed Missouri, then northwest through the territories until I left the lands owned by America.”

“And how long did you travel after you left those lands?”

He squinted. “About . . . a month and a half, I think.” He gave her a wry look. “These last few days have made everything blur together.”

A month and a half. That wasn’t too far for an army to travel. She’d known other people lived in the world, but the reality of them being so near washed through her with painful clarity. The people of Laurent—her people—were in more danger than she’d allowed herself to believe.

She worked for a casual tone. “And there are many of your countrymen who live at the edge of your American lands?”

He raised his brows in surprise. “You mean the edge of the territories? Not at all. Mostly Indians, and a few trappers, although most of those are French.

“Most are tied up with skirmish and battles related to the war.” His voice grew weary. “It’s been hard. With the British fighting on one side, and the Indians attacking on the other, we’ve lost so many men. And not just men.” His voice caught on those last words.

She homed in on his face. Who had he lost, specifically? Dare she ask? The need to know pressed her. “You’ve lost friends?”

He didn’t shy away from her gaze. A depth of pain flashed in his eyes. “The war has taken many people I would call acquaintances, a few friends, too. And my wife.”

Like a punch to the gut, his words slammed into her, knocking the breath from her lungs. He’d been married? How had the war taken her? Surely not in battle.

Every part of her ached to ask more, but this time she didn’t dare. What he’d revealed already felt like too much. More than she wanted to know.

A new awareness hummed through her, and she couldn’t see him as she had before. Not as a man who’d possibly come to take over Laurent, to see many of her people killed, and even more devastation brought on those who lived.

No. Evan was simply a man. One who’d lost someone very dear to him.

As she had.

Except he’d lost his wife. Something deep inside her stabbed with a blade that tasted faintly of jealousy.

A woman had known this man well enough to share his life and his bed—maybe even his heart. She knew well enough every marriage wasn’t a love match.

In a small village such as Laurent, when male and female came of age, unions had to form for the simple matter of procreation. Of course, there were many other reasons, but the village would die away if no one married.

Evan’s face gave no indication of whether he and his wife had been blissfully happy before her passing or only carrying on the duties of each day.

Children. Did he have a son or daughter waiting for him back in America?

A whole host of new worries turned inside her. If Evan didn’t return to them, would a precious child become both fatherless and motherless? A fist clenched her heart, squeezing until she could bear it no longer.

She swallowed to summon moisture into her mouth. “Did you . . . do you . . . have . . . children?” Her chest wouldn’t allow in air as she watched his face for an answer.

He shook his head, a new flash of pain clouding his eyes. “Sophia wanted them, but . . . we didn’t have any.”

A wash of thoughts and emotions swirled inside her. Sophia. What an elegant name. French, too, just like the people of Laurent.

Her mind churned with questions, but only one burned to be answered. “How long ago did she . . . ?” What word would be appropriate to mark the passing of a loved one? She struggled with the same question about her mother.

Passingseemed so flimsy, as though the awful day that Brielle’s heart had been forever shredded was only a flimsy blade of grass that could blow off in the wind. Not the marking of the day a young woman was a girl no longer. Not marking the day she became mistress of the home, mother to two hurting children, one who would never hold a memory of the woman who bore them.

Evan’s answer pierced through her thoughts. “Two years ago. While I was—” his voice broke, then he looked to be forcing out the rest of his words—“gone. A fever took her life. She’d been helping in one of the soldiers’ hospitals when she took ill. Some might not blame the war for her death, but the war was also what kept me from being with her at the end.” A hard grunt slipped out that might have been a chuckle. “It was another five months before I came home and learned she was gone.”

She could understand the tinge of bitterness that laced his tone. “You were a soldier?” Maybe she shouldn’t have pressed with that question, but now she wanted to know more about this man. He drew her like no man ever had before.

He dipped his chin. “I worked for the army.”

“You . . . don’t work for the army any longer?”

A slight hesitation. Just barely a pause, but enough to make her carefully consider his next words. “After Sophia was gone, I had nothing left to hold me to Maryland. I dove into my work with everything I had, trying to lose myself in becoming the best. I worked hard.”

The cords in his throat flexed. “I did everything asked of me. But things didn’t always turn out well.” His voice took on a raw edge, like the memories were almost too much. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t handle the horrors of war.” He inhaled a breath, and his voice leveled out. “So, I began exploring. First I went west, and found I liked the freedom. On my second trip, I came northwest.” He held out a palm. “And here I am.”

Brielle nodded, but her mind was turning with so many thoughts, she needed time to sort through everything. She laid her head back against the stone wall behind her. “You must be tired. I’ll not bother you with any more questions.”

Maybe Evan’s thoughts were as cluttered as her own, for he stretched out on his side. But it was a long time before his eyes closed, and even longer before his breathing settled into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Good thing she would be staying awake as his guard, for the longer she dwelt on their conversation, the more questions she had. But they weren’t questions about his whereabouts and intentions here in Laurent. Her mind struggled to fill the gaps in the picture that was his life before he came.

Now that she knew a little about him as a person, her heart craved to know so much more. What of his parents? Were they still alive? Had they been loving? Where had he grown up? Village or farm? When had he married?

And that question that burned every time it raised its nagging head—Had he loved his wife? Did he love her still?