Cherokee Storm (16 page)

“Did you?” Shannon asked. “I didn't know.”

“Far to the north it was, along the Ohio. I am Delaware, cousin to the Shawnee and Menominee. My name was not Oona then, but
Amimi,
the pigeon.”

A chill ran through Shannon. She waited, teapot poised above the pewter mug, knowing that whatever Oona was going to say, it would be awful.

“We were sleeping when they came. Some were French, some Huron. My husband, my sisters, my mother all died. My little son…A white man pulled him from my arms and threw him against a tree. He fell broken, and they stepped over him, as if he was nothing. And when they had finished with me, a Huron warrior dragged me into what was left of my wigwam and set fire to it.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“I wanted to die. I should have died.”

“But you didn't.”

“Your father found me wandering in the forest with my little son in my arms, half-mad. He buried my baby and my heart with him. Flynn O'Shea cared for me as though I was of his clan. He took me to a village of the Shawnee and left me with my own kind.”

Shannon set the teapot on the table and went to Flynn's woman, wrapped her arms around Oona and held her. Oona sobbed dry sobs, but did not cry. Shannon cried for her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, a flood of sorrow for Oona's baby and Oona's family that she had never seen.

“In time the burns healed,” Oona whispered hoarsely. “The family Flynn O'Shea left me with had poor hunting. When a French priest came, they sold me to him for a mirror, and two horns of black powder.”

“How did you and Da…”

Oona shrugged and stepped away. Her eyes were dry, the pupils large and clouded with horror. “A young woman, a strong woman has value, even one who has this.” She tapped the ridged scar on her face. “I had many masters, some good, some not so good until I saw your father at a rendezvous. I begged him to buy me from the Dutchman who owned me then. He drank hard liquor and beat me too much. Sometimes, he gave me to other men for their pleasure.”

Shannon's eyes widened in disbelief. “Flynn bought you?”

“No. He gave coin to a French monk who said the Jesus words over us to make me Flynn's wife. Then he beat the Dutchman and threw him into the river. He took the Dutchman's furs and horses and gave them to me for my bride price.”

“He married you?”

“By book and cross. I am his wife. He is my husband. And now we will have a child, and my heart will beat again. That is what kind of man is your father. He has given me back my life, and if he is ashamed for his white friends to know, it is nothing.”

“But I don't understand,” Shannon said. “Why did he hide your lawful marriage? Why did he let me think that you—”

“Was his whore?” Oona shook her head. “Who knows why a man does anything? All I know is that my burned face does not matter to him. He tells me I am beautiful and he holds me in the dark when the bad dreams come.”

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've been so terrible to you,” Shannon said. “I never thought about why you would—”

“Shh. Your father comes.” She put a finger to her lips and hurried into her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

Shannon heard footsteps on the porch. One person, not three. She turned toward the sound. “Da?”

Flynn's complexion was tallow-gray. He leaned against the door frame for support and dropped a bucket on the plank floor. The bucket was empty. It fell over onto its side and rolled back and forth.

“What's wrong?” Shannon demanded. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Are you all right?” He looked as though he'd seen a ghost.

“You!” He pointed at her. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” she protested. “I've done nothing. What do you mean?”

He crossed the floor, grabbed her shoulders, and shook her until her teeth rattled. “How could you?”

“What? What is it?” He shoved her away with such force that she lost her balance and almost fell. “Da? Have you lost your mind?”

“No,” he roared. “But you must have!” Sweat beaded on his forehead as veins bulged beneath his fair skin. “Did you think you could do such a thing and get away with it?”

“I don't understand,” she wailed. “What have I done?”

“Go into your room. Pack your things. You're going to the fort with Drake and Damon.”

“But why?”

“I wouldn't have believed it,” he said. “Not of you.” He drew the back of his hand across his eyes. “Damn it, Mary Shannon. I never thought ye such a fool.” He sank down on a bench.

“Da.”

“Do as I say, girl.” He knotted one fist and smacked it into the palm of his other hand. “I'm not a man for striking a woman, not even his own slut of a daughter, but—”

“I'll not go a step until you tell me what this is all about!” she shouted back at him.

“At the spring. A Cherokee runner brought me a message from Storm Dancer's mother.”

“What?”

“Her words, Mary Shannon. Her words, not mine. She's angry that you and her son have lain together as man and wife. Did you?”

Stunned, she opened her mouth to deny it. But the lie stuck in her throat. “Da, I think…Da, I love him.”

“Did you or did you not give him what should have been your husband's?”

She looked away, unable to face him. “Please, Da, don't hate me.”

Flynn shook his head. “Like your mother.”

“My mother? What does my mother have—”

“What's done is done. I can't pretend to be a saint myself, but I'll not stand by and watch you endanger your immortal soul. You'll bring no more shame on this house. It's over between you and Storm Dancer. Do you understand?”

She looked at him through her tears. “I can't promise you that.”

“Can't you?” He rose unsteadily to his feet, one hand gripping his right arm. Pain crossed his face. “Pack your things, Mary Shannon. You'll not stay under this roof another night.”

“You're sending me away?” she cried. “Da, please, don't—”

“This very morning your red lover married the woman his mother chose for him,” Flynn thundered.

Storm Dancer? Storm Dancer had married someone? Pain tore through her, shattering her and leaving her numb.

“And you'll do the same,” her father said. “Firefly has warned me to find you a husband of your own kind or else face the consequences.”

“What does that mean?”

“Drake Clark has asked for your hand. You'll go with him, be married at Fort Hood, and make your home with him from this day forth.”

“And if I don't want to marry Drake? You can't force me to marry a man I don't want.”

“You'll do it, or I'll send you East for your own safety.”

“I don't want to leave you.”

“Too late. You broke my trust and put my friendship with the Cherokee in jeopardy, not to mention puttin' your own life in danger.”

“From who? From what?”

“His mother. Firefly. Don't you realize what you've done?”

“Please…”

“You'll do as I say, or I'll disown you, girl. I swear on the cross, I will. You'll keep quiet what you've done, and you'll marry Drake Clark. You'll be a decent wife to him, and you'll never utter Storm Dancer's name again. You'll pretend that it never happened, or you're dead to me. And you'll never see my face again.”

“I won't do this,” Shannon protested as Flynn hoisted her onto her pony two hours later. “You can't force me to marry.”

Drake looked on, hard-faced. He and his brother were armed and ready to ride. Each man carried a rifle strapped to his back. Drake had a long-barreled pistol thrust through his belt next to his skinning knife and extra shot bag. Damon led the cow on a rope. Her father had insisted she take Betty as part of her dowry.

“It's for the best,” Drake said stiffly. “This country is no place for a maiden lady. I can protect you.”

“This isn't right.” She had no more tears to shed. Her eyes were dry, belying the pain in her breast. Storm Dancer had married one of his own kind. The night they'd spent together had meant nothing, and now her beloved father was insisting she marry a man she didn't love to hide her shame.

“What's wrong with me?” Drake stalked up beside her pony's withers. He wore the blue shirt this morning, which made it easy for her to tell him from his twin, Damon, in faded green. “I can provide for you,” Drake continued gruffly. “Put food on the table and a roof over your head.”

Her pony snatched a mouthful of grass and danced sideways. He never liked the saddle, and he was always saucy in the morning. Today, Shannon didn't feel up to dealing with his misbehavior.

“If you don't want him, take me,” Damon offered as he swung into his saddle. “I'll marry you.”

Damon's voice was rough, and the hungry look he gave her made a chill ripple under her skin. Damon was ambitious to be more than a farmer, and she'd always thought him the more intelligent of the two. She had more in common with him than she did solid Drake, who'd never wanted more than a hearty meal, land to till, and a field of good horses. But she'd never trusted Damon. Something about him always made her uneasy. No matter what Da threatened, she never would have considered marrying Damon.

“There's nothing wrong with either of you,” she said. “I don't want any husband.” Was that a lie? She didn't know what she wanted. All she could think of was that she'd never feel Storm Dancer's touch again, never lie beneath him wrapped in his arms, and never hear his voice murmuring endearments. Her stomach clenched and she felt sick. Her cramps had returned with a vengeance. “I want to stay here with you, Da. Please.”

Flynn shook his head. “I'll ride as far as the English fort with you, to add my gun to theirs. But the choice is yours. Marry one of these boys or take the first escort back East.” He tossed the reins of Drake's gelding to him. “Let's go if we're goin'.”

Drake mounted and dug his heels into the bay's sides. The animal leaped ahead, pulling abreast of Damon's horse. Her father fell in behind him, leaving Shannon to bring up the rear. The sky was clear without a cloud, and the day promised to be a warm one.

She let the pony have his head, trotting or cantering to keep up, depending on the terrain. She didn't look back, but each mile that they rode made her sadder. And by the time the sun was high overhead and they were a long ways from the post, she was nearly undone. As they reached a level stretch and the horses lapsed into a walk, Shannon covered her face with her hands and slumped forward in the saddle. Her head was pounding and her mouth tasted sour.

How could her father be so cruel? His own wife, Oona—whom she knew he cared for—was Indian, and he was too ashamed to claim her in public. Soon, Da would have a half-breed son or daughter, yet he treated her, his only daughter, as though she had committed a terrible sin because she looked past Storm Dancer's skin color to fall in love with the man beneath.

It would serve Da right if she asked him how he could treat her this way—if she exposed his secret to the world—but she couldn't make that leap. What if he stopped loving her? Without Storm Dancer, Flynn was all she had left in the world. She couldn't lose him too.

She clenched her jaw and gathered up Badger's reins. Would she never see her home again? Never hear Oona's soft crooning as she sewed or brewed herbs to make medicinals? Familiar images of the cabin and store…of the spring and the meadow tugged at her heart. Even the hounds and the bare patch of dirt in the front yard seemed endearing. What did it matter what happened to her now…if she did marry Drake Clark? She'd survived worse, hadn't she?

When her mother had died and her uncle had thrust her into the children's home, she'd lived through the cold, the beatings, and the hunger. She'd survived the loneliness, and when she had found Anna, they'd suffered and laughed together. Anna would never be her lifeline again. Her dear friend was dead, but if the world held a person like Anna, why not another someone like her?

She might make another good friend. In time, she might even come to love Drake. He was a good man and honest, a hard worker. And if she couldn't feel the passion for him that she did for Storm Dancer, why couldn't she be satisfied with friendship and respect? And there would be children. She could love and care for her children, and if she was a good mother, they would love her.

She would survive because she was too much of a coward to lie down and die. She loved this world too much to go willingly into the next. Still, she couldn't marry Drake with a stain on her conscience. She gathered the leathers and reined in the pony. Drake circled his own mount and rode slowly back to her.

“Now what's wrong?” He loomed over her, heavy and solid, hands the size of hams, broad brow sheened with sweat from the morning sun.

“We need to talk.”

He swept off his broad-brimmed hat and raked fingers through his damp hair. “I'm listenin'.”

“If we are going to marry, we need to be honest with each other,” she said. Damon and Flynn had both pulled up their horses and were glaring back at the two of them. Betty raised her tail, bawled, and let loose a stream of urine.

“Come on, girl,” her father called. “You're wastin' daylight.”

“In a minute, Da,” she answered. Turning back to Drake, she said, “You want to marry me, even if I'm not sure I want to marry you. Is that true?” She raised a brow quizzically.

“Yeah. 'Spose that's so. I liked you the first time I caught sight of you. I thought we'd make a good pair.”

“And my wishes don't matter?”

He shrugged. “Women's got funny notions. You'll come around once you see it's fer the best.”

“If that's true, there's something you should know. I'm not coming to you an innocent.” All the breath seemed to have drained from her lungs, and her eyes misted over with tears. “There was…” Her mouth was dry. She struggled for the words. “I'm no virgin, Drake. If that makes a difference to you—”

“You laid down with some man?” His face darkened as he caught a section of her skirt in one giant paw and twisted it.

She tried not to shrink back. “I did. If you don't want me because of that, I—”

“Were it Damon?”

“No! It wasn't your brother.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not my father nor yorn?”

“No! What do you think I am?”

“Tryin' to figure that out. It's a big thing to a man. Most figure that a woman comes to her bridal bed untouched.”

“Not as often as men think.” She raised her chin. “I'm trying to be fair with you.” Traitorous tears filled her eyes. “It was just one night. It's no one you know, no one you'll ever know.”

“And you ain't in the family way?” He peered at her midsection suspiciously. “That ain't why Flynn's suddenly so eager to be rid of you?”

She dropped Badger's reins and held up her hands, palms out. “Forget it. Obviously, you think I'm a whore. It doesn't matter. I didn't want to marry—”

“All right. All right.” He spat a plug of tobacco onto the ground between their mounts. “Don't matter then, I suppose. It's jest that my pa's a randy dog. I couldn't stand it if you'd laid up with him or my brother.”

She was shaking. “This was a mistake. I'm not the one for you. Take back your cow and tell my father—”

“I reckon I could live with it, just so you understand I won't be cuckolded under my own roof. I'll stand for no sneakin' around after you take my name. And there'd better be no six-month baby. I may not read books or talk fancy, but I can count.”

“I said forget it. It wouldn't have worked anyway.”

Flynn wheeled his horse back toward them. “What's up?”

“Just gettin' a few things straight between us,” Drake said, before she could answer.

“You still want her?” Flynn asked.

“He doesn't.” She tried to pull away from them, but Drake's fist had closed over her pony's bridle and he held her fast.

“Pay no heed to her,” Drake said. “We come to an agreement.”

“No, we haven't,” she protested. “Da, take me home, please. I'm sorry I hurt you, but—”

“Nothin' more to say to you, girl. You've heard my offer. Drake, Damon, or Virginia. I'll provide a decent dowry, so you won't go penniless to your husband, whoever he is.”

“Sounds like a fair offer to me,” Drake said. “I'd prefer hard coin. I've a mind to buy Jacob Baker's black bull, and he wants a pretty piece for it.”

Shannon looked from one to another in disbelief as they proceeded to haggle over her bride price as though she wasn't even here. It was clear that what she wanted didn't matter. She was an object, probably worth less than a cow to either of them. It was wrong, so wrong, but what choice did she have?

Returning East and becoming a servant again was out of the question. The sadness in her heart swelled until it nearly choked her. Maybe she should just do what they wanted. She was only a woman after all, and if she'd lost the love of her life, maybe obeying her father would make him love her again.

 

It was night when Storm Dancer reached Truth Teller's trading post. He left his horse and circled the log palisade. Tucked in the pouch at his waist were bits of fresh venison for the white trader's dogs. His father had taught him long ago that a dog with a full belly doesn't bark but welcomes the hunter who brings the meat.

He'd scaled this wall many times before, but tonight all his senses were alert. His heart pounded, and his mouth was dry. He had come to ask Shannon to wait for him. He intended to find out if she would leave her people and become one of the
Tsalagi,
if she would consent to be his wife. He would promise to care for her all of her days. He would pledge his life's blood and his honor to her and to her alone. And if she would have him, it would make him the happiest man alive.

Minutes later, having soothed the hounds and crossed the compound unseen and unheard, Storm Dancer tapped at Shannon's window. He hadn't brought the bone flute. It had been difficult enough to convince his uncle and father that he had to see Truth Teller's daughter before he went north with them. His father especially had not been pleased.

“You risk much,” he'd warned. “You know your mother wants you to marry Cardinal.”

“I told her I wanted another.”

“Have you thought what danger you put your white woman in?” Flint had asked.

Winter Fox had added his words of caution to Flint's, but nothing would turn Storm Dancer from his mission. If Shannon would have him, he would have no other. And if she agreed, he would deal with his mother.

It was his feeling that his father allowed his mother far too much power. Firefly would not decide for him. She would be angry, but she loved him too much to disown him. And once she met Shannon and saw how true her heart, his mother would relent and welcome her. Let someone else fulfill the ancient prophecy. He was a warrior of the Cherokee, nothing more.

No sound came from within the cabin. Smoke rose from the chimney. The house was not deserted. Surely his love did not sleep so soundly that she couldn't hear his knocks against her shutter. He tapped again and whispered her name. “Shannon.”

“She is gone.”

Storm Dancer spun to see Oona standing in the shadows, a dog silent at her knee. “You? I—”

“You should not be here,” she admonished. The dog wagged his tail. Storm Dancer didn't know if it was one he'd fed or not.

“I come to speak to Shannon.” They fell easily into the Cherokee tongue. “Tell her that—”

“Are you deaf that you don't hear me, or do you choose not to understand? She's gone to the English fort to marry a white man.”

He felt as though an arrow had pierced him. “Married? She can't be. She didn't say anything about—”

“What did you think? That she'd pick you? A
Tsalagi?
”

He took a step back. How was it possible that Shannon had kissed him…lain in his arms…made love to him when all the while she'd planned to marry a white man?

“Ahh. So that's how it is,” Oona scoffed. “Her new husband is one of the settlers from Green Valley, a man from the wagons that brought her through the mountains.”

“She said nothing of another man.”

“You are a fool, Storm Dancer. A fool if you believe that Truth Teller would let you have his daughter. He is ashamed of me, but he cares for me and his coming child enough to keep me in his house. For his daughter, he wants a white man. You are
Tsalagi.
She is white. You can't be together. It was a foolish dream.”

Storm Dancer fought to keep his voice from cracking. “Is this marriage her father's wish or hers?”

“The man has been coming to the post to see her. The choice was hers.”

“Are you certain?” he asked. “Was she forced to marry this man?”

“Go from this house,” Oona said. “Do not come here again. Do not try to follow Truth Teller's daughter and ruin her life. There is nothing for you here.”

“So be it. Peace to you, daughter of the Delaware.” He turned and sprinted into the darkness. He was not a man for tears. He could not cry as other men did, but his eyes burned as though live coals rested in them.