Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(81)

She’d guessed the younger one since every time he looked at her, his eyes were more intense and filled with an interest the older one didn’t seem to share. She was grateful neither one had attempted to touch her or hurt her in any way, at least not yet.

She couldn’t imagine spending the rest of her life with either one. The thought brought another wave of misery crashing over her. She let her hand hang over the side of the canoe and dragged her fingers through the cold water. Down below the waves, far in the depths where the fish swam, the lake was calm and peaceful. It was a place without trouble, a place where she’d be free of pain, where she’d finally be rid of the lonely ache that had pierced her.

Pierre was dead, Jean was lost to her, and she was being taken from the one spot on earth she loved, the only place she’d ever wanted to live. It would be easy to put an end to her misery. All she had to do was stand and lean over. The jolting motion of the canoe would send her into the open arms of the waves. The water would embrace her and pull her down to its bosom, to a warm place where no one would be able to hurt her ever again.

Surely God didn’t expect her to go on living this kind of life—a life without hope or a future. Her numb fingers dipped deeper into the water, and the icy spray splashed her bare arm. Her long tangles of hair clung to her damp face.

Was this how Therese had felt? Had the deep waters called to her too?

Angelique squeezed her eyes closed against the image of her sister shivering in the middle of a canoe, leaning ever closer to the water and peering into it with hopelessness in her heart.

She hadn’t wanted to become like her mother or sister. But was she destined to repeat their sins whether she wanted to or not?

“No,” she whispered through trembling lips and jerked her hand from the water. She wanted to be like Miriam—sweet and prayerful Miriam. When Miriam had been captured by Indians as a child, she’d survived.

Angelique tucked her stiff fingers beneath the folds of the soggy blanket. Miriam’s captivity had been worse than hers. Even though the dear woman rarely spoke of the time, she’d shared enough that Angelique had been able to piece together the story. Miriam had been just a young girl when Indians had broken into her family home and taken the entire family captive. They’d forced them to march through the wilderness for weeks, giving them very little to eat.

Along the way, Miriam’s mother had prayed and reminded them of their blessings, that they were alive and together. She’d encouraged Miriam to remember that no matter what happened in the days to come, the Lord would be her refuge and strength.

When Miriam’s family had finally reached an Indian village, the Indians had split them up and forced them to work as slaves. Under the harsh conditions, Miriam’s mother had died along with her two younger siblings. But Miriam’s father had persuaded the Indians to take the rest of the family to Montreal, where the Indians traded them to the French as servants.

Even though her father had tried to raise enough money to redeem all her family, he’d fallen short. Miriam never was able to return home. She’d eventually met Pierre’s father and married him.

Angelique hugged her arms across her chest. If only she could have the kind of faith Miriam had. Was it possible to find hope to keep going, no matter her situation? If Miriam had been able to do it, couldn’t she?

“Oh, God,” she whispered, “help me believe you are my refuge and strength. Help me believe.”

Behind her, the old Indian gave a weak shout. She turned to see his paddle floating in the water away from them. With a deftness and strength that Angelique couldn’t keep from admiring, the young Indian dug deeply through the waves to retrieve the paddle.

“Let me help for a while.” She grabbed the handle as the brave held the paddle out to the older Indian. “He’s tired.”

The brave glanced at his friend, to the slumped shoulders and the weariness in his face, then gave a curt nod to Angelique before turning and resuming his quick but deep strokes.

Angelique shrugged out of her blanket and handed it to the old Indian, who took it with a grateful nod. She plunged the paddle into the water and fell into an easy rhythm with the brave.

She didn’t stop even when her shoulders and back burned from the need to rest. For some reason she wanted to prove herself to the young Indian. From the disdain she’d noticed in his eyes from time to time, she’d gotten the impression he thought she was fairly worthless.

If she was going to have to marry him, then she didn’t want him believing she was weak and helpless. She could do more than he realized.

As the darkness of evening began to fall, he guided the canoe to a sheltered area of the shore. Though her body ached more than it ever had before, she took the young Indian’s fishing pole, dug up several worms as bait, and waded out to her waist to fish.

She didn’t like fishing from the shore as well as from her canoe, but she could still make the catch. By the time the young Indian had collected wood and started a fire, she had two trout. The older Indian smiled at her and held out his hunting knife.

She helped him move closer to the fire and spread out the wool blanket to dry before she gutted and filleted the fish. She could sense the brave’s careful scrutiny of her while he patched a leaky seam of their canoe with a gum-like mixture of beeswax and pitch.

By the time she’d roasted the fish and divided it between them, giving her portion to the older Indian, the brave’s mistrust had dissipated. He broke his own piece in half and shoved it toward her. “For you.”