Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(88)

Red Fox shook his head to her question and then addressed Miriam, “You get Pierre’s paddle. He needs it.”

Miriam’s unseeing eyes seemed to take in everything. Her expression turned serious. “I don’t know where Pierre’s paddle is. But I have one you can give him.”

When Miriam disappeared into the cabin, Angelique glared at Red Fox. “Tell me what’s going on. Why do you need Pierre’s canoe and paddle?”

Red Fox scrunched his brows with a fierceness that may have once frightened her but no longer did. The darkness in his eyes wavered, and he jutted out his chin. “He runs from the Menominee. They hunt him for the Redcoats.”

The news penetrated Angelique like the first hard frost of the fall. Pierre was a wanted man. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

She could only imagine how angry Colonel McDouall and Lieutenant Steele had been when they’d discovered the empty Black Hole. Such an impossible escape would embarrass them and undermine their authority. She had no doubt they were anxious to get him back and had likely put a price on his head.

“He is fast and smart,” Red Fox said, eyeing the door. “He will come back to you.”

She shook her head. “We aren’t meant to be together.”

“You are good for my brother.”

“But I’m pledged to another—”

“You are pledged to another here.” He tapped his head. “But you are pledged to my brother here.” He pounded a fist against his heart. “One pledge can be broken and repaired. The other cannot.”

Miriam’s reappearance silenced any further protest. Angelique sucked in a sharp breath when she saw the paddle Miriam carried, the bright red and blue one that had been hanging above the kitchen table. Angelique had never imagined she’d see it anywhere but on the wall.

Miriam hesitated in the doorway, her fingers caressing the smooth wood of the handle. Then she thrust it toward Red Fox. “Give this to Pierre.”

Red Fox pried it out of Miriam’s stiff grasp.

“I should have given it to him long ago,” she said.

The brave gave the slender piece of brightly painted wood nothing more than a cursory glance. To him it was simply a means for moving a canoe. But Angelique knew it represented much more than that. Maybe Pierre’s father hadn’t given him the paddle like so many voyageur fathers did to their sons. But she could imagine that if Mr. Durant had been there at that moment, if he’d seen the kind of man Pierre had become, a man of faith and integrity, he would have gladly given Pierre the paddle.

But now Miriam was bestowing the heirloom upon Pierre in her husband’s place. And even though Miriam was doing the right thing, Angelique had the urge to grab it out of Red Fox’s hands and return it to the wall.

She didn’t want Miriam to give Pierre her blessing on his fur trading. She didn’t want Miriam to believe Pierre belonged in the wilderness. She wanted Miriam to pray that Pierre would come home and settle down.

But Angelique could only stand back as Red Fox strode away, the paddle under one arm and the canoe on his shoulder.

A tear slipped down Miriam’s cheek, and Angelique reached for her hand.

Miriam tried to smile. “I should have told Pierre I was proud of him.”

“He’ll know that now.”

If he lived. But she bit back the words and squeezed Miriam’s hand.

Somehow Miriam’s acceptance of Pierre’s wandering ways made his choice of fur trading all the more final. Even if he outsmarted those who were searching for him, he would be forever lost to them now.



Pierre huddled in the shallow, crumbling mound. Sticks poked into his wet shirt and scraped his back. His feet dangled in the icy water at the opening of the abandoned beaver lodge. He’d hunched inside the dome as tightly as he could, and now he prayed the decaying structure wouldn’t topple down around him. At least until his pursuers passed by.

Outside, the splashing of footsteps going against the current alerted him to the approach of one brave who had been steadily trailing him.

Pierre held his breath and hoped the brave wouldn’t notice the pile of sticks hidden along the edge of the riverbank beneath a tangle of dead leaves. Of course Pierre had spotted it. Over the years of trading he’d become an expert in locating beaver lodges. Hopefully the brave wasn’t an expert too.

The brave’s sloshing slowed. Pierre’s stomach rumbled, and he pushed his fist into his belly to silence it. He’d been running for days, hardly sleeping and rarely eating, always trying to stay one step ahead of his enemies. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep going.

From the shortening days he knew that September would soon pass into October. And if he hoped to make it to the Chippewa winter camp, he had to set out for it soon.

He closed his eyes, exhaustion crashing over him like the rapids he’d just swum across. His body was numb, his hands cracked. His boots were in shreds, and his feet were now bruised and bleeding, leaving him no choice but to stay in the river so that he could wash away any trace of his blood.

He’d been praying ceaselessly. He’d decided that even if the Menominee captured him, he was trusting in God’s strength this time. Whether God gave him life or death, he wasn’t relying on his own efforts alone.

Perhaps God had given him another trial to drive him back to his knees and turn him into a man of prayer. Maman had always prayed for him. Maybe it was time to start praying for himself. Over the past days of running, he’d prayed about everything, including his angry parting with Angelique. Every time he remembered the way they’d left each other, he wanted to go back in time and redo it.