Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(7)
The agent ambled along the last of Pierre’s canoes as if he were taking a leisurely stroll instead of calculating how he could steal or destroy the cargo of furs.
Pierre started forward, but Red Fox grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him backward. “Not today,” he said, firmer this time.
Pierre strained to break loose from his friend’s grip, hoping his shirt would rip and set him free to slam into the agent. But before Pierre could get away, Red Fox had wrenched his arm behind his back and jerked it painfully.
“We need to go now to the Great Turtle,” Red Fox said. “Then my people will help keep watch over my brother’s furs.”
“You’re right.” Shame slipped a knot around Pierre’s heart. “I’m still too quick to pick a fight.”
Maybe he was still quick to sin in too many areas. Maybe he hadn’t changed enough yet to return home.
He glanced again at the rising hump of Michilimackinac, letting the cool air blowing off the lake soothe him, along with the lingering scent of the whitefish he’d caught and roasted for his men.
Today he had hoped to stand in his childhood home and cook dinner for Maman. He’d seen the near-starvation conditions of the British garrison yesterday during his mission. Even though Maman surely wasn’t faring as badly as the soldiers, he’d saved several of his catch, along with the cornmeal and onions he’d purchased from the Chippewa. He wanted to make her a feast of baked stuffed whitefish, and if he had enough of the cornmeal left, he would make her the hasty pudding she so loved.
But maybe he should move on, urge his brigade to St. Joseph’s. They had no reason to stop at Michilimackinac. Up until now, they’d always bypassed it. He’d made a point of avoiding home.
Why should he change course now? What made him think Maman would want to see him again?
“We will wait for right time to attack company traders. Then our war clubs will strike like lightning and our arrows will sting like the hornet.” Red Fox watched the North West agent slink back to his brigade. His dark eyes glittered as sharp as the edge of his tomahawk. “They have hurt and cheat my people too many times. We will repay them. Someday.”
Pierre knew the Indians were getting tired of dealing with the North West Fur Company. Their agents were stealing and encroaching on Indian land. And now many of the natives preferred to work with free traders like Pierre, who were more honest and fair in their dealings.
The Indians had more patience with their enemies than he did. Even so, Pierre knew that when the natives finally had enough of the abuse, their retribution would be swift and brutal.
Pierre was glad Red Fox was his friend and not his enemy.
The young brave’s painted face was fierce. “Today is the day of calling to the Corn Spirit so that our bellies will be full when game is scarce. And you must offer the peace pipe to your family. You have withheld the pipe for too long.”
Pierre nodded. He’d come this far. He couldn’t stop now.
Even if Maman didn’t forgive him, at least he’d find peace in apologizing. Oui. Red Fox was right. If he faced his fears, he’d finally be able to move on to his future without the past pulling him back.
Pierre rolled his shoulders, easing the tension from them. Then he curled his tongue against the back of his teeth and whistled. The piercing sound rang out over the beach, signaling his men to start packing up.
Red Fox released his arm and nodded at him, his eyes praising him for his self-control this time.
Pierre dropped the paddle.
He wasn’t the same reckless youth who’d left the island. He was a changed man.
Hopefully he would be able to prove that to his maman. And eventually prove it to himself too.
Chapter
3
Didn’t Ebenezer have anything better to do with his life than to spend it controlling every little thing she did?
Angelique turned her back on the man, feigning that she hadn’t noticed him poking his balding head out the back door of the tavern to check on her again.
She released a long breath and then sucked another one through her mouth, careful not to breathe in the stench. Cleaning the hen house was the dirtiest job in the world, and she’d thought she would get a break from Ebenezer’s constant supervision while doing the spring chore.
“Shoo now,” she scolded one of the hens attempting to enter the coop. “I don’t need you checking on me too.”
The hen squawked and fluttered, then finally strutted—as if seriously offended—outside into the fresh air and the yellowed matted grass that was slowly coming back to life.
Through the open doorway, Angelique counted the dozen hens and the rooster roaming the picketed yard. Beneath the smattering of lusterless feathers, the chickens lacked the plumpness and fullness they needed. The winter had been hard on the few animals left on the island—the few that had escaped butchering.
Thankfully the hens had continued to lay eggs, though not nearly as often as they should. She’d worked hard to ward off frostbite to the chickens’ thin bodies, rising early every morning to provide the extra light they needed for egg production in the dark Michigan winters. Yet even on a good day, she’d been lucky to gather ten eggs.
Angelique dug her shovel into the slimy muck that covered the floor beneath her boots. The dried maple leaves she’d laid out last fall had decomposed under the constant droppings of the birds and now only added to the filth and dust coating the hen house.