Quent took a tin canteen from his belt and filled it from the stream then carried it to her. She drank without looking at him and returned the empty canteen without a word of thanks. The men went back to ignoring her.

“You under an obligation to go back to those colonials?” Cormac asked.

“Not really. Our arrangement’s on a week-by-week basis. Week ends tomorrow. Besides, Washington’s done what he set out to do. Head off the enemy. He’ll turn around and head back to the Forks. Tanahghrisson’s sure to send a brave to show them the way.”

“Washington, that the boy who was in charge?”

“Yes.”

“He appears to need a lot of showing the way.”

“He’s young. This is his first command. Got some growing up to do, but I reckon he’ll do it fairly soon. The Ohio Country ages green wood pretty fast.” Quent stopped speaking and looked more closely at Cormac. “I said I wasn’t obligated to return to him. I’m not, unless... You figure Washington and his farmers will make it back to Great Meadows without any more trouble?”

“None I’m aware of,” Cormac said. “Far as I know it was exactly what it looked like, a sortie to see what was happening at the Forks and suggest it better be stopped.”

“And that’s not your look-out? You don’t have to report back to anyone?” Cormac grinned. “I haven’t joined the French army, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve a duty, but it’s not to them.”

Quent followed Corm’s glance. It led straight to the woman. She was still resting her head on her knees. “A duty to her?” he asked.

“Not the way I think you mean. Leave it for now. I’ll explain later.”

Quent nodded agreement. “Fine. Next question, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“I thought that might be the case. That’s why I let you know I was close by.” The call of the northern loon had been their private signal since boyhood. “But it doesn’t explain much. Why?”

“Because Miss Lorene asked me to.”

Quent nodded. The great shame in Lorene Devrey Hale’s life had been having her husband bed his Potawatomi squaw under the same roof that sheltered his wife and his children. But the way it had worked out, Lorene and the squaw’s son were devoted to each other. Plenty of reasons, but none of them mattered just now. Old battles in an old war. Quent had washed his hands of it years before. So had Corm. It was a pretty safe wager that Corm suddenly turning up in the Ohio Country was to do with a different fight.

Quent unslung his rifle and began polishing the barrel with his sleeve. “Pity my mother sent you all this way for nothing. I’ve said everything I had to say to John. There’s no need for any further discussion.”

“I wouldn’t have come if it was just about making peace between you and your brother.”

“Ahaw.” Somehow the Potawatomi word for yes seemed stronger. “You would. You’d go anywhere and do anything, as long as it was my mother did the asking.”

Cormac shook his head. “John is vicious and a fool and he’s set to ruin Shadowbrook. That’s something I think you ought to go back and fix, but it’s not why I’m here.”

Quent shrugged. “Shadowbrook’s not my lookout anymore. My father’s made it clear. John’s the eldest. The house, the land, everything goes to him.”

“Quent, listen...”

Quent stopped rubbing the gun’s brass and looked up. Cormac’s tone had changed. “There’s something behind your teeth. You’d best spit it out.”

“Your father’s dying. That’s why Miss Lorene asked me to find you. Only a few more months. Maybe less. She said I was to tell you that afterward you could do as you liked with her blessing, but if you let your father die with the last words between you spoken in rage, she’ll never forgive you. And you’ll never forgive yourself. That’s the message. That’s what she told me to say.”

Cormac felt better for saying it. He squatted and began attending to his own rifle, examining the carrying strap the dirk had sliced through. Quent walked away and stood at the edge of the clearing, staring into the trees. Every once in a while Cormac lifted his head and examined the other man’s rigid back, but for long minutes nothing changed.

The shade was thicker where Quent stood. The daisies and buttercups ran out and the forest floor was a mass of nodding bluebells. No bluebells at Shadowbrook, it was too far north. There were other flowers though. Plenty of them. No place on earth was more beautiful. At least none he’d seen. But for him the land of the lakes would always be haunted by Shoshanaya’s ghost. In the Ohio Country he was free of that, and free to be his own man. And in the Ohio Country he wasn’t a slave owner.

Quent walked back to where Corm was squatting on the ground checking the sight of his long gun. “My father’s been an invalid for years. I can’t remember the last time he was able to walk without sticks. But he’s always been too ornery to die. What makes my mother think that’s about to change?”

Cormac got to his feet and tested the repair he’d made to the long gun’s carrying strap. “Good thing that dirk of yours is so sharp. You sliced this through nice and clean. Made it easy to fix.”

Quent looked at the permanent scar his dirk had made on Cormac’s face and felt the familiar ache of guilt. Twenty years and the pain was no less. Despite the fact that a short time later Corm had offered him the Calumet and both boys had solemnly smoked, with all the attendant ritual. The fight was truly over, forgotten and forgiven. Quent made himself ignore the scar. It was a sin against the Calumet to do otherwise. “Tell me why my mother thinks the old bastard’s going to die.”

“You’re uncle, Caleb Devrey, Miss Lorene’s brother, he’s a doctor and he came and said so.”

“All the way from New York City?”

“Yes. He said—”

There was a terrible keening sound. Pitched low, but steady and insistent. Nicole was rocking back and forth, making a sound of grief and pain that was like the scrape of a sharp stone on glass, so piercing it hurt the ears.

Cormac swung around. “Est ce que vous et fou? Silence!”

The girl didn’t stop wailing. “Who is she?” Quent demanded. “Why are you responsible for her?”

“It’s a long story. I told you, I’ll explain later. Listen, about your father, you’ve got to–”

Quent turned away and strode over to where Nicole was rocking back and forth, still making that mourning cry that sounded as if it were meant to wake the dead. “You must be quiet. We’re in the middle of Iroquois country. ”

Her cries got louder, and she was still looking at him as if he were not there, as if what she saw had nothing to do with the peaceful forest clearing, or this benignly warm day in late spring. Just looking at her Quent knew she was gazing into some kind of terrible hell that lived in her own mind.

He picked her up. She was limp in his grip, her arms clasped over her heart, her mouth still open, still making those terrible noises. Quent carried her over to the stream and waded into the middle of it, then dropped her. She landed on her backside, and tiny though she was, made a formidable splash.

Nicole screamed, shocked by the water’s cold. Even this late in the season it was icy with the melting snow of the high peaks to the east. She flailed around, beating the racing water with her fists, trying to get to her feet but constantly defeated by the slippery, uneven rocks that formed the streambed. Quent watched and did nothing to help. Eventually she managed to stand up. The struggle had left her soaked from head to foot. Her dress, already torn and filthy from their flight through the forest, clung to every generous curve of her small body. “You are a madman! Un idiot!”

“I told you, we’re in Iroquois country. You were keening so’s a half dead, deaf and blind old man could find us, let alone a few bloodthirsty braves.”

She shuddered. “Those Indians, the ones back there at the glen, they will come looking for us?”

“I don’t think so. That bunch has no reason to want us dead and every reason to want us alive. But that doesn’t mean you should tempt fate with your wailing. There are others around who have different intentions.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was making any sound at all.” She stopped looking at him and looked down at herself. Her cheeks reddened when she saw how much the wet garments revealed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured again.

“I guessed you didn’t realize what you were doing,” Quent said kindly. “It doesn’t matter. We seem to be pretty much alone for the moment. Ohio Country’s a big place.”

“What is this Ohio Country? I thought we were in the pays d’en haut.”

“Not exactly. That’s what the Canadians call the land north of us around the big lakes. As far as the Potawatomis and the Miamis and the Mascoutins and the Hurons are concerned, it’s their land. As for this bit here, Ohio Country’s as good a term as any. Which are you, by the way, French or English?”

“By birth I am both, monsieur. My father was English and my mother French. But my heart is not divided. It is entirely French.”

The way she said it, the amount of pride, made him smile.

“You are laughing at me.”

“Never.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I am entirely serious, monsieur. You can not–”

“Hale. Or Quent, if you prefer. Not monsieur.”

“Very well, Monsieur Hale then.” Nicole made a move to leave the frigid water and make for the shore, but stumbled after the first step and fell again to her knees.

This time Quent took pity on her and picked her up. “This streambed is treacherous, and you’re not properly shod to navigate it. Besides, if you’re going to bathe in the stream like an Indian, you should take all your clothes off to do it.”

“Bathing in open water is unhealthy,” she protested. “Everyone knows it.” And when he’d dropped her on the grassy bank, “What is properly shod?”

“These.” Quent held up his leg. His wet moccasin, ankle high and fastened with supple leather thongs, had molded itself to his foot. “They’re what the Indians wear. Much better than boots in the forest. Boots,” he nodded toward hers, black leather and tightly laced to a few inches above her ankle, “have hard soles that slip and slide. The Indians make moccasin leather so it stays soft, protects your flesh, but lets you move as if you were barefoot. You can feel the earth.”

“Barefoot,” Nicole said softly, “is a good thing. It’s what I want to be.” Quent had no chance to ask why. Cormac had kindled a small fire. “Come over and get dry. This and the sun will do the job in no time.”

Quent’s legs and his moccasins dried quickly. Nicole’s skirts as well. But her hard leather boots remained damp, and the top half of her soaked through. Her nipples showed against the snug bodice of her dress. Both men tried to avoid staring at them.

“What’s it to be?” Cormac turned to Quent. “What direction are you taking when we leave here?”

“My Uncle Caleb, you’re sure he said my father would die soon?”

“Ahaw.” Yes. “He said it was dropsy. Only a few more months. Maybe less. I heard him myself.”

Quent hesitated. He felt Nicole’s eyes on him. And Corm’s. But nothing from behind. He sensed no hostile force in the immediate vicinity. Even if there were, Cormac Shea would be a match for it. Corm was as good a woodsman as was ever born, and in a fight he had no equal. Except maybe Quent himself. Besides, he had a long gun. Corm could get himself and the girl safely through the Ohio Country. Quent couldn’t use that as an excuse. His mother maybe. Because she’d asked. And Shadowbrook. God yes, that was the real truth of it. It was Shadowbrook calling him home. “I’m heading north with you, nekané.”

“My spirit is pleased,” Cormac said softly in Potawatomi.

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