Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(82)

“You need it more than I do.” She fanned out the folds of her skirt near the flames, attempting to dry the silky material and trying to ignore her rumbling stomach.

He placed it in the sand next to her feet and nodded at it. “Eat it.”

She glanced at him in surprise.

“You are kind to Yellow Beaver, my grandfather.” He glanced at the older man, who was already curled up asleep on the opposite side of the fire.

She rounded the fire and tugged the dry half of the wool blanket over the older man. The young Indian’s eyes followed her every move. And when she returned to the fire and rubbed her hands in front of it for warmth, the brave spoke again. “Thank you.”

His voice was kind. She could almost begin to believe there was something likable about him. She nodded at him and then picked up the warm piece of fish and brushed the sand from it. “And thank you.”

After taking a bite of the trout, she moved out of the cold sand that squished between her toes and found a spot of grass. A gentle voice whispered that even though she’d left her island, she could still find a solid place to stand, that whatever she faced in the days to come, God would be her rock and hold her up.

Maybe she had to give up hope in everything she’d ever wanted, the things that faded and could easily slip through her fingers, so that she could finally put her hope in God, who would never change or leave her.



The next morning the sun came out for the first time since they’d started their journey away from Michilimackinac. Angelique took turns paddling with Yellow Beaver, who was content to sit back and watch the changing landscape and let her help his grandson.

When she finally allowed herself a glimpse of the shoreline, she drew in a deep breath of the cool morning air and for a brief moment had a stirring of peace. The lake was clear and glassy, reflecting the yellows and oranges of the trees that were gaining their fall colors. Several mallards swam along the shore, and she caught a glimpse of a doe drinking at the edge of the lake.

Perhaps she could begin to understand some of why Pierre had fallen in love with the wilderness, why it had been so important to him. Maybe over time she would grow to appreciate it too, although she doubted she’d ever be able to love it more than Michilimackinac. But if she had to leave her beloved island and make a home somewhere else, the wilderness was beautiful.

The brave said something in his native tongue and then pointed westward. Yellow Beaver sat up, squinting as he stared into the distance.

Angelique let her paddle grow idle and peered ahead at the wisp of smoke rising in the air from a peninsula jutting into the lake.

With a nod, Yellow Beaver replied to the brave, then took the paddle from Angelique. A new eagerness chased away the tired lines in his face, and he plunged the paddle into the water with fresh energy.

As they drew nearer, Angelique stared at the peninsula with unease. Was this where she would find her new home? Once they reached the rest of the Indian’s tribe, would he make her his wife? Her insides twisted at the idea of sharing intimacies with him.

The brave said something over his shoulder in his native tongue. Her pulse thumped with rising panic, and she glanced at the water and the ripples made by the smooth gliding of the canoe. Was it too late to jump?

“They are waiting for us,” the brave said. “That is why we reach them today.”

Along the shore were half a dozen large voyageur canoes pulled up into the sand with stacks of trade cargo piled on the beach under tarpaulins. Shirts and capotes were strewn in the brush, apparently drying in the warm morning sunshine. A couple campfires were burning with men lounging beside them, some playing cards, others sleeping. Several men were busy patching canoes while one knelt at the shore, shaving his cheeks.

“What is this place?” she muttered.

The young Indian let out a shrill cry that resembled the war cries the Indians had used on the day of battle. She half expected a tribe of Indians with hatchets and clubs to jump out of the woods and descend upon the peaceful camp of voyageurs. Instead, the men sat up and stared at their canoe, which was drawing closer by the second.

The man kneeling at the shore splashed water on his face and then rose to his feet, shaking his head and his dark curls, letting the water cascade down his wide shoulders and broad bare chest.

“Pierre . . . ?” she whispered, knowing that in her desperation for him she was turning some other man into his likeness. Pierre was dead. He couldn’t possibly be standing on some remote peninsula on the shore of Lake Michigan.

But with each paddle closer, his chiseled features grew clearer, until she was sure it was his midnight eyes that peered across the lake at her.

“Angelique!” he called.

Her heart stopped altogether, and she felt herself collapsing at the realization.

A grin spread over his features as he splashed into the lake toward them. Within seconds the canoe glided into shallower water, and Pierre waded up to his thighs in his eagerness to reach them.

A rush of joy broke through her shock. She waved to him. His face was thinner but was still just as darkly handsome as before, if not more so.

He grabbed on to the edge of the canoe and dragged it toward him, his eyes catching with hers and shining with excitement.

“Pierre!” she said, hardly able to believe he was really standing before her, breathing and moving and whole.

He reached for her and lifted her out of the canoe in one easy motion. The solidness of his chest and arms, the warmth of his skin, the heat of his breath all confirmed what her mind couldn’t grasp.