Justin picked up his knife and fork. "I said you'd cut him to the quick."
"I'll be back well before Landen Shipping's next meeting," Marcus said. "Then I will cut Ardsley to the quick."
Marcus slowed his horse in the dense forest and scanned the ground. The tracks in the soft South Carolina ground were less than an hour old. He glanced up through the trees. At most, the afternoon sun would be in the sky another two hours. At a sudden commotion in the trees ahead, Marcus jerked his hand to the musket in his saddle holster, but relaxed when a flock of bobwhite quail took flight. The leather fringes on the sleeves of the buckskin he wore swayed violently, then came to a rest as he focused again on the tracks and urged his horse forward.
Only a moment later he caught sight of two horses picking their way through the trees about seventy-five feet ahead. He looked closer. One of the horses was riderless. He'd been following the tracks of two men, where—the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked answered the incomplete thought.
"Take the musket from its holster and toss it," a male voice said from above him. Marcus hesitated and a strong "Mister" settled the matter.
He slid the Brown Bess musket from its holster and tossed it to the ground. "I'm not here to cause trouble."
The sound of the rifle's hammer being uncocked from above was followed by the light drop of the man from the trees onto the ground behind Marcus.
"You tracked me some distance before I realized you were on my trail," the voice said. "Not bad for an Englishman."
Marcus slowly turned his horse and found himself facing a young man dressed like himself, except the other's clothes bore testament of the wearer's time in the saddle. This was Steven Landen. Those deep brown eyes—and the challenge they held—were all too familiar.
"Scottish Highlands," Marcus said.
"Well, Highlander, what are you doing in South Carolina tracking me?"
Marcus glanced at the Baker rifle the boy held loosely at his side—not so loose he couldn't yank it into position before Marcus was upon him. Arrogant pup. But perhaps it was an arrogance born out of experience. The British-made Baker rifle was known for its precision aim, a very good reason for a US Army tracker to carry the weapon.
Steven's gaze shifted past him and Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see the rider he'd spotted a moment ago standing a few feet away. He saw now what he hadn't discerned before. The buckskin-dressed man was Indian.
Marcus faced Steven. "How did you discover I was on your trail?"
"I'm the best tracker this side of the Mississippi," Steven said with unabashed candor. "White tracker, that is."
"You are Steven Landen, then?"
The boy gave no indication Marcus had hit the mark, only continued to study him.
"We need to talk. Privately," Marcus added.
"Anything you have to say can be said in front of Joseph."
"'Tis about your sister."
Steven's nonchalant demeanor vanished. "My sister is dead."
"Nay. She was lost off the coast of Solway Firth, Scotland."
Steven's jaw tightened. He looked at the Indian. "Joseph."
Marcus didn't hear the man leave but knew he had when Steven swung his gaze back to him.
"You have any idea how many people have information concerning my sister?" Steven's expression turned speculative. "None of them ever tracked me through the wilderness. You must feel damn confident about your information. You have five minutes. I should warn you, however, if I don't find your story amusing, I'll kill you."
A melancholy warmth rippled through Marcus. "That sounds like something your sister would say."
Steven's gaze turned icy. "If you want to delay dying, don't bother with the amusing anecdotes."
"I will begin with this." Marcus reached into the front pocket of his buckskin jacket.
Steven pointed his rifle at Marcus. "Easy."
Marcus paused, then slowly produced his and Elise's wedding certificate from the pocket. He dismounted, then strode to Steven and extended the certificate to him.
Steven rested his rifle against the tree he'd been hiding in. "Don't think we're alone," he said as he unfolded the document, "I saved Joseph's life once. He can't return to his Chickasaw tribe until he returns the favor, so he's hoping like hell someone will try to kill me."
Steven scanned the document. A moment later, he looked at Marcus and gave a short laugh. "You got the name wrong. Elise is not a Merriwether."
"Nay," Marcus said, "she's a MacGregor."
Half an hour later, Marcus laid Elise's death certificate on the ground between him and Steven. The boy stared at the document. The fire they had built flickered off his pale face in the waning daylight. He lifted his gaze to Marcus.
"No death certificate was issued for Elise." He stared at Marcus for a long moment before saying, "I have no way of knowing if a word of what you say is true."