Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(6)
He hadn’t planned to let anyone see him. But on his way back to his canoe, he’d come across a soldier strangling a young woman. Thankfully he’d knocked the soldier out before he knew what was coming. When the soldier woke up, he wouldn’t have any clue what had happened. Which was a good thing, because the British liked him and thought he was their friend. If any of them suspected he was communicating with the Americans, they’d arrest him and lock him away for the duration of the war, if they didn’t kill him first.
Unfortunately, the woman had seen his face, had been too curious, and dare he say—recognized him? And even though he’d pleaded with her to remain silent, he had the feeling she’d already spread word about his arrival to everyone on the island.
He couldn’t really blame her. He remembered what it was like after the long winter, waiting for the first contact with someone from the outside world. Whatever the case, he was hoping the fresh shave and a change of wearing apparel would make him indistinguishable from all the many voyageurs who would descend upon the island with him.
“You will anger the Great Spirit by sneaking around the island like a-se-bou the raccoon,” Red Fox warned, as if he’d sensed the direction of Pierre’s thoughts.
“I’m just doing my part in the war,” Pierre replied. He hadn’t wanted to pick up a gun and fight. And because he was an important fur trader, no one had questioned his decision to stay off the battlefield. In fact, because of the relationships he’d already formed with the British over the past several years, none of the British officers had second-guessed his loyalty, even though he was an American citizen.
“The raccoon is nothing but a thief,” Red Fox said, puffing out his chest and staring off into the distance. “It is no good to have your feet in two fires. Someday you will get burned.”
Red Fox was one of the smartest men Pierre had ever met, but also one of the most superstitious. He believed every legend and lore that had been passed on to him from his people. And while Pierre had tried to speak to him of his God of mercy and love, Red Fox could not understand a God like his. And he certainly couldn’t understand Pierre’s part in the war, not when he himself didn’t know how he’d gotten mixed up with both sides.
“I’m too smooth and quick to get burned,” Pierre said, slipping on his shirt. As the damp material slid over his head, his gaze landed on several men poking around his canoes.
Not surprisingly, several other brigades had also stopped at the Straits to bathe before making an appearance on the island. The shore was lined with their birchbark canoes, loaded with the pelts they’d collected all winter, including many of the North West Fur Company voyageurs and their agent.
Pierre stiffened and started toward them.
Red Fox put a steadying hand on Pierre’s arm. “You cannot get attention of ladies with cuts and bruises on your face.”
Pierre’s footsteps faltered. He’d only been jesting with Red Fox about winning the attention of the ladies. The truth was he’d put off his womanizing ways along with his drinking when God had turned him back around.
If he were completely honest with himself, the real reason he wanted to clean himself up was because he wanted to look good when he finally stood before his maman.
But he wouldn’t make such a favorable impression on Maman if he showed up with a black eye and busted lip, which was what he’d come away with the last time he’d gotten into a fight with a North West Company agent.
“Stay away from my canoes.” Pierre forced himself to stop at the stern of one of his vessels. In the bright morning sun, the strong scent of pine rose up from the white birchbark his men had recently coated with fresh resin so that the canoes would be durable and waterproof for the last leg of their journey.
The agent kept strolling, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his sagging trousers. Like most of the men, he was still shirtless, and his back was the purplish-red of a beet that one too many sunburns had stained over the years.
Pierre quickly took stock of the ninety-pound bundles that had come hundreds of miles, through rapids, over portages, and past many dangerous currents. His brigade had risked their lives to haul the furs out of the wilderness. At the very least they deserved the rewards for the hard labor.
And he was determined to do whatever he could to finish their journey in safety without any further problems from North West Company men who wanted to see free traders like himself put out of business altogether.
“Leave my furs alone.” Pierre growled the words. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough to damage my business this year?”
“Nope.” A grin turned up the corners of the agent’s lips, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth—at least what was left of his teeth. “I figure I still got some time to make you go crying home to your mama, where you belong.”
Pierre gripped the closest paddle, decorated with a colorful pattern. The paddle was the arm of every voyageur, his life, safety, and pride, often inherited from a voyageur father, and almost always blessed by a local priest before leaving on a journey.
Of course, his papa hadn’t given him his paddle.
Red Fox moved next to Pierre, his dark eyes issuing another warning—the warning not to swing the paddle. “Do not fight. One day your belt will be heavy with the scalps of your enemies. But not today.”
Pierre struggled against the urge to knock the agent flat on the ground. His men had become his family. The wilderness had become his home. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone push him out of doing what he loved. And he couldn’t let the North West Company strip his brigade of what was rightfully theirs, not after months of hard work.