Cherokee Storm (2 page)

“Men call me Storm Dancer, but you knew me once when I wore a different name.”

She shook her head. “No. I don't know you. You're a stranger.”

His thin lips turned up in a faint smile. “Are you sure?”

“Please. Let me go back to my friends. My father is a friend to the Cherokee. He will pay—”

“It is as you say. Flynn O'Shea is a good friend to the Cherokee.” He touched his lips with two fingers in a graceful gesture. “Among my people, we call him
Truth Teller.
”

“And he will pay well for my safe return.” Shannon straightened her shoulders and tried to force her voice to calm. If she could keep him talking, reason with him, she might live to walk out of here as untouched as she'd entered. She took another breath. “How do you know who I am?”

He made a click with his tongue that might have been amusement. “You don't listen. But I should have remembered. Once an idea lodged in your head, you did not give it up easily.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I—”

“Have you forgotten the boy who taught you to catch trout with your bare hands? To ride a pony astride without bridle or saddle?”

Otter? She looked at him again. Once, long ago, when she was small, a boy had come often to her father's trading post with his uncle, an important man called Winter Fox. He'd been older than she by a few years, not many, young enough that her mother hadn't forbidden them to play together. Other children had visited the post from time to time, but Otter had been her only real friend. But Otter had been a shy, gentle boy, slender as a reed with a quiet smile and tender hands. This savage warrior couldn't possibly be…

He folded his arms across his chest. “Now you remember.”

“Otter?”

He retrieved a blanket from the edge of the fire and approached her with slow, measured steps. “You are cold, Mary Shannon. Warm yourself.”

“No,” she said stubbornly, clinging to reason. “You can't be my Otter.”

When she flinched, he followed and draped the blanket around her shoulders. “Long ago I was,” he said. “But his time is past.”

Emboldened by his kind gesture, she sidled past the horse's rump. In the far corner, a second horse stood nose to nose with Betty. With a shock she realized she knew these animals. The white trappers who'd stopped the Clark party early this morning had ridden these horses—the men who'd warned them about the raid by hostile Indians. This man, whoever he was, was at least a thief, perhaps even a murderer. Her fear flowed back twofold.

“Please, if you'd just let me go.”

He took a stand between her and the entrance. “Do you want to die?”

Her heart hammered against her chest, blood ringing in her ears. “You said…you promised you wouldn't hurt me.” Tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks. “You promised.”

“Do you think Flynn O'Shea is the only man who speaks true?” His question rang hard and aggrieved. “You are my guest, Mary Shannon. Out there lies danger. I will keep you safe by my fire until morning.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat as thunder boomed and rolled across the mountain peaks. Alone with a nearly naked stranger, a barbaric tribesman with skin of dusty bronze…Safe? And her clad only in shift and stays, how could she be safe with him?

“Come.” He bent and added another log to the fire. “Warm yourself.” The words were soft, but commanding.

“The horses…” she dared. “You took them from—”

He nodded. “I did.”

“And the men who rode them?”

His sloe-black eyes glittered in the firelight. “This is Cherokee land,” he murmured. “The enemy of the Cherokee can expect no mercy.”

A twig snapped and the flames flared, casting grotesque shadows on the wall and ceiling. A bone-deep chill radiated out from the pit of Shannon's stomach, and she couldn't help shivering. He'd as much as admitted he'd stolen the horses and murdered the men who'd ridden them. He was right. If he ever had been her friend Otter, it was long ago—replaced by a cold and heartless killer…a man who could use her as he pleased and discard her without a shred of conscience.

She wasn't a coward, but she didn't want to die. Still, if she had to, she'd do it with dignity. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of begging for her life. And she wouldn't make it easy for him. She'd fight as long as she drew breath.

“Please,” she said, trying not to show how frightened she was, “I'm cold. Could I have my dress? It's out there.” She pointed, but he'd already ducked around the wall of rock that concealed the inner chamber from the cave mouth. Before she could take two deep breaths, he was back, her dripping garment and stockings in his hands, beads of rain streaking his hard features and bare chest.

“You cannot wear these,” he said.

“Yes, I can.”

She reached for them, but he shook his head and draped the wet garments over a saddle on the far side of the fire. “You were never such a fool, Mary Shan-non. If you put them on before they dry, you will be even colder.”

“Don't call me that,” she protested without thinking. Her mother had only used her full baptismal name when she'd been in trouble for some childish mischief. Moreover, it was what the orphanage matron, Mistress Murrain, had called her when she'd beaten her for breaking the rules.
“Mar-ry Shan-non—Mar-ry Shan-non!”
And each taunting syllable had brought another slash of the leather strap and more mocking ridicule from the other girls. “I go by Shannon now,” she finished, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Shan-non.”

His soft Cherokee struck an unfamiliar chord, piercing her defenses, and unfurling a bright ribbon of excitement deep inside her. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them back. “If you let me go, I won't tell anyone I saw you,” she bargained.

“And I am to let the daughter of Truth Teller walk out into the storm to be struck down by
anagalisgi,
the lightning, or eaten by
yona,
the black bear?” He motioned her to sit down on the floor of the cave, fumbled in a leather bag, and tossed her a patty of what looked like corn bread. “Eat. You are too thin.”

Why was he offering her food? Did he think she'd fall into his arms for a morsel of bread?

“Eat, woman. Are you simple?”

Reluctantly, she nibbled at the cake. It was sweet and laced with dried berries. And after the first bite, her stomach growled, reminding her that she'd had nothing since mush and weak tea at dawn. Ravenous, she consumed the last crumbs.

“Good.” He indicated the cow contentedly chewing her cud. “There is milk to wash it down. No?”

Shannon dropped the blanket on the cave floor and did as she was told. She squirted warm milk from the cow's teats into her mouth and drank until her belly was full. Then she glanced at him.

He shook his head. “Milk is not for the
Tsalagi.
” He didn't have to translate. She remembered that that was the word that the Cherokee used to describe themselves.
Tsalagi
…the people. He dropped into a sitting position and held out his palms to the fire. “Warm yourself.”

She returned to the fire, more conscious than ever of her state of undress, and wrapped the blanket around her again. By the cow's foot had been a jagged stone half the size of her hand. She held it now, concealed from him. It was a poor weapon against a tomahawk or the long rifle leaning against the far wall, but it was something. She was no light skirts, and she'd fight him with every ounce of her strength if he tried to have his way with her.

“Where is your other moccasin?” He indicated her bare foot. “I saw only one at the cave entrance.”

“My shoe? I lost it…in the storm.” Desperate not to sound foolish, she added, “The cow tried to get away. I couldn't stop to find it.”

“I see.” He pulled a wicked-looking knife from the sheath at his waist and began to sharpen it with a stone. Firelight flashed on the surface of the steel blade.

“I'm not afraid of you.” When he looked doubtful, she repeated the lie. “You don't scare me.”

“You are a poor liar, Mary Shannon.”

“I'm not…” She trailed off, knowing that he was right. She was terrified. Even the air in the cavern seemed charged, as though lightning would strike them at any second. The tension made it difficult to breathe…to sit still. “Your uncle…”

She stopped. This wasn't Otter; he couldn't be. He was the liar. “Otter's uncle is a great man among the Cherokee. He will be angry if you hurt the only child of his good friend.”

He fixed those black eyes on hers. “Have I hurt you, woman? I have given you shelter from the storm, fed you, and covered you with my only blanket.”

“You haven't hurt me,” she admitted. At least, not yet. “But you're holding me against my will. And…” Her gaze strayed to the knife in his hand. “You murdered those men in cold blood.”

He shrugged. “So you say.”

“You killed them, didn't you?”

“Go to sleep. I will keep watch.”

Not a chance, she thought. If she closed her eyes, who knew what he'd do? She curled her bare feet under her and pretended to drift off. The smells of the crackling fire, the warm familiar scent of the animals, the rain falling steadily at the cave mouth all conspired to lull her into a false sense of security. She was determined to watch for his attack, but as the minutes became hours and he continued to sit there, her resolve faltered and slumber as deep as death claimed her.

“Shan-non.”

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up abruptly, startling the cow who snorted and shook her horns at the nearest horse. Shannon uttered a small gasp and tried to remember where she was.

“It is morning,” he said. “The sun has risen and the rain has stopped.” He held out a woven basket smaller than her fist. “Have you thirst?”

Her hand trembled as she reached for the object. He was so close she could smell his damp hair and skin, an unfamiliar woodsy blend of earth and forest…foreign but not unpleasant. As she took the basket, his lean fingers brushed hers and her heart raced at his touch. She drew in a deep breath. “What is—”

“Water from the spring. Drink.”

She obeyed and found the liquid cold and sweet, so different from the well water at Klank's tavern that it seemed impossible both could be the same substance. She drained the cup to the last drop. “Where did you get this little basket?” she asked. It seemed fashioned of leaves and twigs, but it was watertight and light as duck down.

His bronze features remained expressionless, but his eyes narrowed. “It is nothing. A skill my aunt taught me when I was…” He hesitated, searching for the word. “A cub.”

“A small child,” she corrected. Had she lost her mind that she would concern herself with precise words? The man was nearly naked. His muscular legs were long and powerful. One bare thigh bore three great ivory scars that started at his hip and ran down the outside of his leg halfway to his knee. Only one animal could leave such a mark. She'd not been so long in the East that she didn't recognize the damage a bear's claw could do.

“Yes,” he said, tapping the single ornament that hung from a string of rawhide at his throat. “I was foolish enough to meet
yona
as he woke hungry from his winter's sleep.”

Shannon swallowed hard. The necklace bore a bear's claw, so large that simply looking at it made shivers run down her spine. “A big bear,” she murmured.

He shrugged. “An old warrior bear, strong and wise.” He touched the claw lightly. “Veteran of many battles.”

“But you escaped.”

He shook his head. “No.
Yona
killed me.”

Her eyes widened in astonishment before she saw one corner of his mouth twitch in amusement and realized that he was teasing her. “You said you were a cub,” she ventured. “Do you have some power over bears?”

“I was born to the Wolf Clan of the
Tsalagi.
A cub is a young one, no?”

“Yes, but—”

“A cub and a child the same.”

“Your English is very good, but a cub is an animal and a child is a human.”

“So you believe.”

Unwilling to argue the point with him, Shannon looked down at the vessel cradled in her hand. The weaving was simple yet beautiful. She wished she could make something so useful out of twigs and leaves. Strange to think a bloodthirsty Cherokee warrior might create such a thing…for her.

Otter had brought her small gifts whenever he'd visited the trading post. Once he'd given her a doll fashioned of wood and leather with real hair from a horse's mane. She remembered how she'd loved the doll, even though it had no features. Where the eyes and mouth and nose should have been was only smooth buckskin. Otter had explained that only the Creator could make a human. The Cherokee sewed no faces on their children's dolls. Odd, but charming.

But this wasn't Otter, she reminded herself. Now that she wasn't quite so frightened, she could see that this man wasn't ugly. This morning, the war paint had vanished, leaving only those high cheekbones, the proud nose, and that honey red-brown skin. The fire had died to embers and she could no longer see his dark, fierce eyes, but she felt the intense power of his gaze.

“Can I go now?” she asked him.

He stepped back and allowed her to pass. She snatched up her dress and yanked it over her head. It was wrinkled but almost dry, and she felt confidence returning as soon as she was decently covered.

“I have to take the cow.”

He shrugged. “Did I not tell you I don't drink milk?”

“She belongs to the Clark family. I'm responsible for the cow,” she babbled. Hope surged in her chest. Was he really going to allow her to walk out of here unharmed? She took hold of Betty's dangling rope and pulled the troublesome animal after her. This seemed too easy. After all her fears, was he really just going to allow her to walk away?

When she reached the mouth of the cave, the sun was so bright that she had to shield her eyes from the glare. The storm that had made the woods so forbidding had transformed the forest into an Eden tinted with every shade of green. Birdsong echoed from branch to treetop, and a rainbow of wildflowers adorned the thick carpet of grass and moss.

Her one shoe lay where she'd discarded it, but the other was hopelessly lost. She'd have to find her way back to the camp in her stockinged feet. How she would replace the shoes, she had no clue. Worn though they were, the footwear had been her only pair.

“Come on, Betty,” she urged, pulling at the cow's lead. She wanted to get away as quickly as possible—before he could change his mind. At least she wouldn't have to return without the Clarks' cow. She knew she'd be blamed for getting lost and—

A rifle shot rang out nearby. A flock of crows flew up in alarm, and a blue jay rasped an urgent warning. Shannon shouted, “Here! I'm here!” Then started as the Cherokee appeared beside her.

“Go.” He waved toward the forest.

She started down the slope, tugging Betty after her. “Over here!”

Suddenly Drake and his twin brother stepped from the trees. Damon shouted, but his words were drowned by the sound of horses' hooves on the stone ledge behind her. Drake aimed his rifle toward the cave.

“No!” Shannon shouted. “Wait, he's not—”

The gun roared.

The Cherokee shoved her to the ground. “Stay down!” He turned and vaulted onto the back of the black horse, leaning over so far that nothing showed but one leg and moccasined foot and a single fist tightly gripping the animal's mane. With a cry he drove his mount down the stone-strewn incline directly toward Drake and Damon. The second horse followed half a length behind, running full out, tail and mane flying.

Drake struggled to reload. Damon raised his rifle to fire, but the black horse was almost on him, and he had to leap aside to avoid being trampled. Damon's foot tangled in the undergrowth and he sprawled full length on the ground. Shannon screamed as the black horse's hooves came perilously close to his head.

At the last instant, the animal leaped over Damon's fallen body and plunged into the woods. The other horse veered left between the brothers and galloped after the mounted Cherokee.

Cursing, Drake got off a second shot, but the slug missed the target by yards and struck the trunk of a massive oak, sending bark spraying into the air. Shannon got to her feet and ran to Damon's side. “Are you hurt?”

Damon sat up, blinked, and rubbed his left knee. “I'm all right,” he managed. His rifle lay a few feet away, the stock splintered where a flying hoof had struck it.

“Damn it to hell,” Drake swore. “I had him in my sights. I could have—”

“He didn't hurt me,” Shannon protested. “You shouldn't have shot at him.”

Drake scowled as he took in her bare legs and wrinkled dress. “You look like…” His face reddened. “Did he—”

“No. He didn't touch me. I got caught in the storm. We spent last night in the cave together, but—”

“You spent the night with him and lived to tell about it?” Drake set his jaw in that stubborn way he had and his eyes narrowed.

“The storm was terrible,” she explained. “I didn't know he was in the cave when—”

“I know those horses.” Damon cut her off. “Same exact ones those trappers were riding. He's a horse thief.”

“They're all horse thieves.” Drake took hold of her arm and peered into her face. “You're certain he didn't do more? Didn't force you to—”