The Captive’s Heart
Book One of the Captive’s Heart Adventure
The Captive’s Heart Book One in the Captive’s Heart Series
She was taken against her will. What she found may change everything she’s willing to leave behind.
The wilderness does not ask permission. Neither does love.
When Luella Carter is seized by a Cherokee warrior and carried deep into the mountain wilds,
everything she knows — her home, her name, her world — falls away like smoke on the wind.
What remains is raw and unfamiliar:
the crackle of firelight, the weight of watchful eyes, the strange pull of a life utterly unlike her own.
She expects captivity. She does not expect to be seen.
Among the Cherokee, she is given a new name — Adohi.
The one who comes from the woods.
And slowly, painfully, beautifully, she begins to wonder if a name can also be a beginning.
What grows between captor and captive defies every boundary she thought unbreakable —
born in silence, tested by fear, and kindled into something neither of them can outrun.
Because the heart, once truly claimed, does not surrender easily.
And Luella must face the question she never dreamed she’d ask:
What if the life I was taken to… is the one I was always meant to find?
The Captive’s Heart is a sweeping, emotionally rich historical romance —
a story of identity, belonging, and the fearless, reckless, transforming power of love.
Excerpt:
Chapter Nine
The faintest edge of dawn crept over the hills, turning the world to ash and silver. A chill hung in the air, heavy with the smell of damp straw and cold earth.
Luella stirred, her body stiff, her mind slow to wake. For a moment she didn’t know where she was — only that she was warm, pressed close to Marcus, the sound of his breathing soft against her ear. Then the memory of flight, of blood, of darkness returned all at once.
She sat up quickly, her heart pounding.
The barn was washed in half-light, shadows stretching long and blue across the floor. The horse stood silent, its breath ghosting in the frigid air. Everything was still — too still.
And then she felt it — that prickle at the back of the neck, that instinct older than thought.
Someone was there.
Her eyes swept the dark corners, searching. At first she saw nothing, only the vague outlines of tools and broken beams. Then, in the far corner where the light did not reach, something moved — the faint shift of a figure seated in silence.
Her breath caught.
She almost screamed, but the sound died in her throat. The figure rose slowly, gracefully, without a word. He stepped into the pale wash of morning light.
He was young — no more than twenty perhaps — his dark hair bound with a leather tie, his face calm, unreadable. His clothing was worn and travel-stained, a mix of deerskin and rough homespun. Across his chest hung a small pouch, and at his belt, a knife sheathed in bone.
He moved with quiet purpose, each step soundless in the straw. Luella froze, torn between fear and the strange, quiet dignity of him.
When he reached them, he did not look at her first. He knelt beside Marcus, his expression shifting to one of concern. His hand hovered over the wound but did not touch.
After a moment, he spoke — his voice low, careful, his accent thick but his English clear.
“He is hurt,” he said simply.
Luella’s lips parted, but no sound came.
The young man looked up at her, his dark eyes steady. “You ran far. But not far enough.”
Her fear flared again. “Who are you?” she managed.
He considered the question for a long moment before answering. “My name is Tayané,” he said. “I saw the man who hunts you. He rides with two others.”
Bradley.
The name rose in her mind like a ghost.
Tayané glanced toward the open door, where the first beam of sunlight broke through the mist. “They will find this place by midday.” He turned back to Marcus, his hand now pressed lightly near the wound. “He will not ride if the bleeding comes again.”
Luella knelt opposite him, her voice trembling. “Can you help him?”
The young man’s gaze met hers, unreadable. “If you trust me.”
“I have no one else to trust,” she said.
He studied her for a long heartbeat, then nodded. “Then do as I say.”
He reached into the pouch at his side and drew out a small bundle wrapped in doeskin — roots, leaves, and strips of bark bound with twine. He worked silently, his movements quick and sure, crushing the herbs with a stone, mixing them with water from her flask.
Luella watched every motion, the fear slowly ebbing from her chest, replaced by fragile hope.
Tayané spread the poultice over Marcus’s wound and spoke softly in his own tongue — a prayer, or a plea. When he finished, he looked at her again.
“He will sleep,” he said. “If the sun finds you here, you must move north. There is a trail through the hollow where the riders cannot follow easily.”
Luella swallowed hard, nodding. “Why are you helping us?”
He hesitated, glancing toward the door. “The spirits led me to this place,” he said quietly. “Although I don’t know why. Perhaps ― we fight the same evil.”
Something in his tone — steady, but cold — made her blood run cold.
Tayané rose, tightening the strap of his pouch. “You have little time. When he wakes, take the river path. Follow the sound of the falls.”
Luella wanted to thank him, to say something more, but he was already moving toward the door.
As he stepped into the pale dawn, she called softly, “Tayané… will we see you again?”
He paused, his profile lit briefly by the rising sun. “If you live,” he said, “perhaps. I will try to lead them away… if I can.”
Then he was gone — swallowed by the mist.
Luella turned back to Marcus, who now slept quietly, his breath steadier than before. She touched his hand gently, her heart torn between relief and fear.
Outside, the first true light of morning spread across the hills. For the first time, Luella dared to believe that salvation might wear the face of a stranger.
By midday, the light slanted white through the cracks in the barn walls. The air was warmer now, thick with the scent of dried straw and dust. Flies buzzed lazily in the corners.
Marcus had not woken. His breathing was ragged again, his skin damp with fever. The poultice Tayané had made the night before was nearly dry, and though Luella had tried to rewet it, the wound had begun to darken at the edges.
She sat beside him, wiping his brow, whispering words meant more to calm herself than him.
When the door creaked, she started violently.
Tayané stood framed in the doorway, the light behind him bright enough to cast his face in shadow. He stepped inside without a sound, his eyes moving first to Marcus, then to her.
“He is no better,” he said simply.
Luella shook her head, her voice raw from lack of sleep. “No. He hasn’t stirred since dawn.”
Tayané crossed the barn and knelt beside Marcus again, laying a hand gently against his neck. “The fever climbs. He will not leave this place ― but you must.”
“Then we’ll wait,” she said quickly. “I will not go without him.”
He cut her off, his tone stern now. “You cannot wait. The riders are close. By nightfall, they will be here.”
She rose to her feet, trembling. “Then go. Leave me. I’m not abandoning him.”
Tayané stood as well, his height suddenly imposing in the small, dim space. “If you stay, you will die — both of you.”
“I don’t care.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained even. “You speak as one who has not yet seen death.”
Luella’s fear flared into anger. “I’ve seen enough to know what it costs to live without honor!”
For a long moment, they stood in silence — her breathing fast and uneven, his calm, unreadable. Then, without a word, he moved.
His hand shot forward, seizing her wrist. She gasped and tried to pull away, striking at him with her free hand, but he caught that too, his grip unyielding.
“Let me go!” she cried, her voice cracking.
Tayané didn’t answer. His expression had hardened into something like sorrow — the face of a man who had made a choice he did not want to make.
With a quick motion, he drew a length of cord from his belt and looped it around her wrist. She struggled again, twisting and fighting, but he was stronger. In a few heartbeats, the knot was secure.
“Tayané!” she pleaded, breathless. “Please — you don’t understand!”
“I understand,” he said quietly. “But the dead cannot love, and the brave cannot help those who will not run.”
He led her toward the open door. She dug her heels into the ground, tears streaking her face. “No! Marcus—please!”
He turned briefly, his gaze flicking toward the still figure on the hay. “He will rest. I will return if I can.”
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, her voice trembling with fury and despair.
Tayané paused, tightening his grip as he guided her outside. The sun caught the edge of his cheekbone, the glint of his dark eyes.
“Away,” he said simply.
He lifted her easily onto one of the horses — Marcus’s — and tied her hands to the saddle. Taking the reins, he held them as he mounted his horse. The animals shifted restlessly, their breath rising in soft plumes.
Luella twisted against the rope, breathless. “You can’t do this—”
“I can,” he said. “And I will. He bought you time. Do not waste it.”
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From the author of:
When Marriage Feels Distant