Runaway

  “OH, I SWEAR I WILL—SHOOT YOU!”

  SHE THREATENED.

  “Tara—”

  “In both knees! And I’ll scalp you and—”

  “You’ll hush up before your voice carries any farther!” he warned her.

  “I’ll tell you exactly what I think of you, just as loudly as I—”

  “You’ll close your mouth, my love.”

  “I—”

  “I’ll close it for you.”

  “How dare you—”

  But he did dare, easily, his lips sealing her own, his tongue thrusting to fill her mouth, the force of his kiss robbing her of breath. When his lips parted from hers at last, she couldn’t quite grasp why she had been shouting. She inhaled raggedly and told him, “This is no way to carry on a conversation.”

  A smile curled the left side of his mouth just slightly, and a speck of fire seemed to glimmer in his eyes. “We weren’t conversing.…”

  THE CRITICS LOVE HEATHER GRAHAM’S

  RUNAWAY

  “ENTERTAINING … TEMPESTUOUS protagonists, titillation and just enough history to ground the plot. She delivers these elements with panache.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A novel that will appeal to saga and historical readers, men and women, because of its power and ability to transport readers.”

  —Romantic Times

  “FRESH AND EXCITING … Graham lights up the sweet savage swamps of the middle peninsula. In Graham’s hands phallic Florida rises. We pant for more.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “If Runaway is any indication of this series, Ms. Graham will own the bestseller lists for some time to come. Runaway is a surefire runaway bestseller. Ms. Graham has hit a home run with the first of this five-part historical saga.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  Map illustration by Jackie Aher

  Copyright © 1994 by Heather Graham Pozzessere

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Delacorte Press, New York, New York.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81516-3

  Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Map

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s note

  Prologue

  Part One - Game of Chance Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two - Savage Land Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Three - Destiny: So It Comes Full Circle Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  I have always wanted to do a series of books about Florida. It is much more than a place to me; it is home. In my own lifetime, I have watched drastic changes come to the state. No matter what those changes, it has always been a land of contrast, from the quiet peace of moss-draped oaks to the violence of ’gator-riddled swampland. Some people love it, some people hate it. Some swelter in the heat, and others dream of it during long winters in more northern climates. But to me, home is something like a close relative. I love it for all of the good—and the bad—that it entails, and I am delighted now to be embarking upon a series of books that will bring Florida through decades of change to our present day, the Florida that I know best.

  Working on such a series seemed an easy prospect; I had heard so much about the state’s history all of my life. The problem there, of course, is half of what we hear is legend, a quarter is truth, another quarter downright lie, and it is amazing to realize that “knowing” about something can also make the research ten times harder. There was no difficulty finding the research books—the difficulty was in deciding which of the various historians’ versions about events from a different century were accurate. Also, just as any current movie is different to the eyes of each beholder, history is also different in the hands of those who actually lived it—often the Seminoles, quite naturally, saw events in a different light from the white soldiers, even when both were in exactly the same place at the same time.

  Some of the widest differences in historical interpretation center on a man who is a main character in my first two books—the legendary Osceola, or Billy Powell, as he was first known, or Asi Yaholo, Black-Drink-Singer. A number of my research books suggest that the white man Powell was married to Osceola’s mother but was not his father, while others strongly argue that Powell was definitely his natural father. A study of his bones suggests a white heritage, though historians bemoan the fact that the war chief’s head was removed from his body at the time of his death. Were the skull and certain neck vertebrae only available now, research could be much more complete. Interestingly, study of Osceola’s bones has also suggested a percentage of black blood, which seems a fitting amalgam for the chief during the time period in which he was born. For my purposes, though I am well aware of the opposing arguments, I have represented Osceola as the natural son of a white man named Powell. Some historians have suggested that he could not speak English; due to the circumstances of his birth and his many relationships with the white man, I find this hard to believe. It would be more natural, I think, to believe that the chief could speak English—when he chose to do so. Whatever the truth of his birth, he rose to become a powerful force in a bitter war, and then to become legend. He was fierce, courageous, all too human in his failings, and at the very least a remarkable man.

  There were many different Native American groups living in Florida at the time of the conflict. Some had moved south during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and become absorbed in the remnants of tribes decimated by European diseases and earlier warfare. Even to say that most were Creeks is confusing, since the term Creek comes from the very fact that they were peoples living along a creek. Osceola was born a “Creek,” but at the time of the conflict all American Indians living in Florida were referred to as Seminoles, and their language group or place of origin did not matter to the white military.

  Even the term Seminole causes conflict, but again, I have read the many suggested definitions, and chosen that which seem most appropriate to me—runaway, from the Spanish term cimarrón.

  I hope very much that you enjoy the book and feel a sense of the wild, raw, and exotic frontier that existed when fledgling Americans turned their eyes southward to a savage land, a fantastic paradise, a burning hell.

  Welcome to my home. I hope you’ll stay with me awhile.

  Heather Graham

  The Great State of Florida

  January 5, 1994

  Prologue

  Destiny

  So It Begins …

  November 20, 1835

  The day was beautiful, crisp and cool. It was, in fact, one
of those late fall days in which it might seem that the landscape was an Eden. Nothing but nature’s beauty intruded upon the trails. Pines grew in abundance within the hammock, and their needles created a soft green carpet on the ground. Through the trail of trees the water of a clear spring glistened, and even at a distance the reflections of a multitude of wild orchids could be seen wavering just slightly upon the glassy surface of the crystal water. Cypress trees grew along the water, interspersed with strong oaks. Soft lime-green mosses clung to the dipping branches of the oaks, creating another wave of reflection and color upon the water. The air was perfect with its cooling kiss of fall. It was true that in summer the heat could become stifling, but even then the crystal water would be welcoming and cool, the dipping, leaf-laden branches of the trees would offer shade from the merciless heat of the sun.

  Beyond the hammock the marshlands, rivers, and swamps swept around rich farmland. Some of it slightly rolling, most of it endlessly flat. Deep in the rivers ringed by the marsh, alligators lived and roamed, hunting the exotic birds that dotted the deep-green and earth-toned landscape. A few wild buffalo still moved within the territory, while deer were in abundance along with rabbits, bears, and squirrels. Wild berries grew in the low brush, and coconut palms were scattered here and there. It was indeed an exotic Eden—with, of course, many a serpent to strike the unwary.

  The White Tiger—the name given him when he had left his childhood behind and become a man—reined in his horse, aware of the subtle sounds within the cypress hammock and the marshlands and swamp that surrounded it. Though no tigers roamed the land, the powerful panthers here were often referred to as “tigers,” and the name had been given him with respect, for which he was grateful. He had ridden deep into Indian country in the Florida territory, a place he knew well, and he sensed he was not alone.

  He paused for a moment. He wasn’t a man given to flights of fancy, nor was he in the least superstitious. But today he felt a curious sense of destiny, as if he were entering along some path from which there would be no turning back. Forces were being turned into motion, and he had now set his feet upon the trail, the course of action, he was destined to follow.

  He held himself very still and listened.

  He heard the faint sound of the water rippling beneath the light autumn breeze, the sway of the cypress branches. He heard the call of the bird and then the call that was not a bird. There was a slight rustle in the leaves that was not caused by the air moving so gently through them.

  He lifted his hands above his head, showing that his knife was sheathed in the leather at his calf and that his rifle rested securely in the leather loop of his saddle. Hands still high, he threw one leg around and hopped down the distance from the back of his horse.

  “I’ve come alone,” he called out.

  Three men instantly appeared, all of them exceptionally grand in their choice of clothing for the day. They wore deerskin breeches and cotton shirts exquisitely designed in a multitude of colors. Epaulets of brass adorned one, necklaces in silver ran in shimmering strands from the neck of another. White blood was obvious in the grave faces of two of the men, the one of medium height, with dark, intelligent eyes that gazed steadily at him. He was a striking man, one who had already earned a reputation, not as a hereditary leader, but as one who had risen among his people, for in the Muskogee culture a warrior chief did not have to come from a ruling lineage. When he had left his childhood name behind and taken on his warrior’s name, his people had called him Asi Yaholo, meaning Black-Drink-Singer, but the whites had put it together and called him Osceola.

  The second mixed-blood Indian in the group was very tall, the White Tiger’s own height, and younger. He was an arresting man of lean muscularity and fluid motion. His face was a handsome one, having taken the best from both cultures. His cheekbones were high and bronzed, his mouth was generous, brow high and cleanly arched, and against the smooth copper of his sun-darkened flesh and the ebony sleek darkness of his hair, his eyes were a rich, startling shade of blue. He had earned the name Running Bear as a warrior, for as a hunter he could outdistance, outfight, and outclimb even the most dangerous of bruins. He was the first to greet the White Tiger, embracing him gravely, then stepping back in silence. It was he who had arranged the meeting here today, and though a powerful man himself and the head of his own family, one confident in himself and his own abilities, he offered a respectful deference to the two warrior chiefs who had accompanied him here today.

  The third man, of pure Indian blood, was Alligator, brother-in-law to Chief Micanopy of the old Alachua band, ready to influence this man who had hereditary sway over not only the Muskogee-speaking Seminoles, but the Hitichi-speaking Mikasukis as well. Alligator was clever, strong, and fierce, and in his dark eyes the White Tiger saw that the man had little hope for a peaceful future.

  Osceola stretched out a hand to indicate a cove among the trees where the ground had been prepared for them to sit. They did so, in a square, all four facing one another.

  “I have come,” the White Tiger said—quickly getting down to business as he knew that Osceola would be impatient to do—“because I bring the great sorrow from many good white men who are familiar with the Mico Osceola.”

  Osceola nodded, waiting. The others remained silent. “Perhaps I am gifted more than most men with my knowledge of the People, and in that, I know that Asi Yaholo does not judge all white men as bad, that he is a clever man who has always taken what he has seen as good from his own world and that of others and put it to his own use. He has made good friends among the whites.”

  “And enemies,” Alligator injected angrily.

  The White Tiger sighed softly. This was why he had come. “Osceola, many good men have heard that you struck your knife through the treaty when Wiley Thompson insisted you move west. You know as well that many men are grieved that Thompson had you seized and put in chains.”

  “No insult is greater to the Seminoles,” Running Bear reminded him. The White Tiger met Running Bear’s blue eyes, and he nodded, very much aware just what an insult Thompson’s actions had been to a warrior of Osceola’s wisdom and strength.

  “The treaties have all been lies!” Alligator said, gnashing his teeth in a way that reminded the White Tiger of the reptile from which the Indian had drawn his name. “Moultrie Creek promised us lands for twenty years—nine of those remain. Monies promised us have been withheld. We have all but starved on the lands we have been pressed into. When we leave those lands, desperate to fish, to hunt, to find food, we are beaten back.”

  They had stolen a lot of cattle and drawn a great deal of hatred as well, but the White Tiger knew that most of this had been because the Indians had in truth been starving. So far this year the weather had been mild, but last winter had been so cold and fierce in the north that a frost had killed almost all crops. The Seminoles had grown more and more desperate. Many whites had thought that the Indians’ desperate plight would make them more pliable.

  It had merely served to toughen them.

  The White Tiger stood. “I have brought cattle,” he said. “My men follow behind me with them now, ready to turn them over to the Seminoles if Osceola will accept the gift.”

  “These cattle are from your own herds?” Osceola queried.

  “Some. And some from others who respect Osceola and wish to apologize to him. Friends as well. Men you have met through me.”

  Osceola, with his curiously arresting features, grinned. “This is not an official apology from your government.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No,” the White Tiger stated honestly.

  Osceola, Alligator, and Running Bear rose as well. Osceola offered his hand. It was small and refined, as were his speech and manners. “You are right—I do not judge all your people as evil. And I accept your gift, because many of our people are hungry. It grieves me to tell you that I cannot forgive the traitorous actions of the man Thompson, nor can I be sorry for any action I have taken for the good of t
he People, nor any that I intend to take.”

  The last left a feeling of cold doom in the White Tiger’s heart.

  “You are silent,” Osceola said.

  “I am silent because I pray that there will be peace among us all. War brings pain and heartbreak, widows and hunger.”

  “Peace has brought enough hunger!” Alligator said.

  “War is still the more bitter course. Peace is life.”

  “What is life without honor?” Osceola asked softly. “I have not meant to distress you, and I know that you fear for the People when you speak. Remember, we do not forget our friends,” Osceola said.

  “Our brothers,” Running Bear added quietly.

  Even Alligator grunted.

  “And I will not take up arms against mine,” the White Tiger told them. “I will continue to pray for peace and seek it with my heart.”

  Osceola stared at him with his pensive dark eyes. “We may all pray for peace, but whether it shall be or not is for our gods to decide.”

  “One God, the same God,” the White Tiger said. “Ishtahollo, the Great Spirit of the Seminoles, is the same one God of the Christian whites. He is supreme, no matter what men may call him. I believe he seeks life for your people and for mine.”

  Osceola smiled but offered no words of agreement. “Where you ride, friend, you will ride in safety. Where you live will be sacred ground. Keep those dear to you upon it, and they will walk in safety too.”

  “Mico Osceola, I beg of you, don’t think hastily upon the action of warfare—”

  “You are too proud a man to beg. You are a warrior, a soldier, yourself.”

  “I am a civilian now. And I dream of this land of ours being an Eden in which we all may live.”

  “Rest assured, I think hastily on nothing,” Osceola said. He smiled. “Once you were a very young man eager for battle. Against the British, against some of my own kin!”

  “I was rash. I learned my lessons the hard way.”