Cherokee Storm (3 page)

“He didn't touch me,” she repeated. She was struck by how different Drake smelled than the Cherokee. Not worse, necessarily, but different.

Damon frowned. “It'll be hard to expect folks to believe that.”

“It's true.” She brushed the dirt off the front of her dress in an attempt to make herself more presentable. Damon's close call had shaken her, but she realized with icy certainty that it hadn't been Damon she'd been worried about. She hadn't wanted either of the Clark boys to hurt the Cherokee. Horse thief or not, he'd been good to her. She'd wanted him to escape.

She glanced into the forest, her gaze automatically locking on the spot where Storm Dancer had vanished into the trees.
Storm Dancer.
Not just a Cherokee, but a man unlike any she'd ever known. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed to normal, and she realized that Drake was talking to her…evidently expecting an answer.

“I heard of a woman taken by the Cherokee three years ago in western Georgia.” Damon rubbed his knee. “When they got her back, she was big with child and stark raving mad.”

“Look at me, Shannon,” Drake said. “Are you certain he never—”

“Must have,” Damon said. “Them Cherokee are randy as goats.”

“No!” she insisted. “How many times do I have to say it?”

“Father will want more of an explanation than that,” Damon warned.

Drake touched her cheek. “People will believe that—”

“I can't help what they think. He didn't hurt me. He gave me food and a fire.”

“Are you telling me the truth?” he demanded.

“Of course.”

“Why would he do that?” Damon asked. “He just stole those horses, probably murdered and scalped those trappers. Why wouldn't he have his way with you?”

“Enough of that talk,” Drake said. “You heard her. He didn't use her. Probably planning something worse. Torture or—”

“Burning at the stake,” his brother supplied. “They say the squaws are the worst. Peel a man's roasted skin like an apple.”

“Stop.” Shannon put her hands over her ears. “I don't want to hear any more.”

Drake grimaced. “But you will,” he said. “And Ma will be the worst.”

Back at the wagons, the families gathered excitedly around the three of them while Drake told of their encounter with the Cherokee horse thief and Damon's near escape from being trampled. The men were all armed with rifles. All the settlers talked at once. A baby shrieked, and Betty the cow mooed. Ada Baker kept shouting over and over, “Lord be praised. Lord be praised.”

Most of the women were asking questions, except for the twins' mother, Hannah. She stood in silence, arms locked over her ample bosom, and mouth pursed in disapproval as her husband climbed up on a wagon seat to make himself heard above the din. “Quiet down, everyone,” he said. “Let's get this story straight, Damon. You say the Indian fired at you first?”

“Yep,” Damon said.

“You didn't tell me that!” Hannah cried. “You could have been killed, boy.”

Drake scowled at her. “Hush your mouth, Ma!”

“Mind how you talk to your mother!” Nathan admonished.

Damon came to his brother's side. “How are we goin' to tell what happened with all these women yammering?”

“The Cherokee didn't shoot at anyone,” Shannon corrected. “Damon's mistaken.”

Nathan hushed her with a raised palm. “You'll get your chance, girl. I'm asking my son.”

“Can't say who fired first, Pa,” Damon said. “It all happened fast. Shannon screamed and—”

“The trappers we met up with yesterday,” Drake interjected. “The horses they were riding…The Cherokee had them. He was just about to ride off with them and Shannon when we caught up with him.”

“That's wrong,” Shannon argued. “He said I could go. He let me take the cow and—”

“He hit her,” Damon said. “Knocked her flat on the ground.”

“That was after Drake took a shot at him,” Shannon explained.

“I said I'd get to you,” Nathan reminded her. “My boys are saying their piece.”

“We need to set off after him,” Drake said. “Now, while his trail's fresh. Let him get away with murder and thievery and half the Cherokee nation will be at our throats.”

“Teach him a lesson,” Damon agreed. “Hang him from the nearest tree.”

“'Course, we ain't sure there was a killin',” Jacob Baker pointed out. “He could've stole the horses and left them fellars alive.”

“Don't matter,” Ben Taylor said. “We hang horse thieves in Virginny. Guess that's fair for white or Injun.”

“Not to mention what he did to this poor girl.”

Shannon whirled on Cory Jakes. “He didn't do anything to me. He gave me food and water, and he let me go. And you don't know if he stole the horses or not. He might have—”

“Them men might have given the horses to him—as a present,” Ben Taylor suggested, and then laughed at his own joke. “He's a thief, all right. Probably got their scalps curing over a fire right now.”

“Ain't there a bounty on scalps in Penn's Colony?” Drake asked.

“Injun scalps, not white,” his father answered.

“'Course, with dark hair, it's hard to tell white from red,” Abe Link pointed out.

“Might be he was planning on ravishing Shannon, then murder. I'm for going after him,” Drake said. “Who's with me?”

A few voices rose in agreement before Nathan's angry bellow cut them off. “None of you is going into these mountains after a Cherokee. Too dangerous. We got the girl back, and she says she's not harmed. We got my milk cow back. Time enough to reckon with that Indian.”

“Pa,” Damon pleaded. “We can't let—”

“You listen to your pa,” Hannah said.

Drake glared at her. “Ma, stay out of this!”

“You heard me,” Nathan said. “I'm not about to risk your hair or anybody else's in this party over some trappers or their stolen horses.”

A dog began to bark and two more took up the chorus. Men looked to their weapons and scanned the trees anxiously.

“Glad to hear at least one of ye has a lick of sense,” came a hearty voice from beyond the wagon circle. A stocky white man clad all in buckskins stepped into the clearing. “Call off your hounds, Nathan Clark. Be there a decent cup of tea to be had at your fire?”

The Irish brogue was as thick as pea soup, but Shannon would have known it anywhere. She'd heard it often enough in her dreams. “Da!” she cried, flinging herself at him.

Nathan laughed. “Lower your rifles, boys. It's Flynn O'Shea.”

Suddenly shy, Shannon stopped a few feet from her father and looked up into his face. He was older than she'd remembered, his Gaelic features more lined and weather-beaten, his dark beard heavily sprinkled with gray, but his eyes were as blue and merry as ever. “Oh, Da,” she murmured. “I've missed you so.”

“Give us a hug, darlin'.” Tears glistened in his eyes. “Dead or lost to me, I thought ye.”

She didn't remember running the last few steps into his arms, but suddenly he was hugging her tight, and she was crying so hard she couldn't speak. “Da…Da,” was all she could manage.

Her father produced a wrinkled but clean linen handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “'Tis a sight you are, darlin'.” He handed her the handkerchief, and she saw that it was her mother's, monogrammed with elegant cursive letters, M. E. B. The handkerchief had been part of her dowry, sewn for her grandmother, Mary Eileen Boyd, who'd been born to the gentry, the Boyds of Shannon Grove in Limerick. Mama had been so careful to pack all that remained of her linens when she'd left Da. This handkerchief must have been left behind by accident.

“Blow that little nose.” Da patted the top of her head. “You're bigger than when I saw you last, but still no taller than my shoulder. The spitting image of your mother.” He released her and turned his attention to Nathan. “So why are the lot of ye as jumpy as fleas on a griddle? Shawnee on the warpath?”

“Not Shawnee.” Drake pushed through the circle of men. “Cherokee. Shannon was kidnapped and held captive for—”

“I was not kidnapped,” she protested. “I just got turned around in the dark.”

Nathan's expression hardened. “More to it than that, Flynn. Held against her will, she was. All night.”

Drake and Damon took positions on either side of their father, arms folded, feet planted, as alike as a pair of bookends. “Ask her,” Damon said. “Cherokee buck held her prisoner all night in a cave. God knows what would have happened if we hadn't found her just as he was fixing to ride off with her.”

“It wasn't like that,” Shannon said. “I was caught in a thunderstorm and took shelter in the cave. A man was there—a Cherokee brave. It's true he wouldn't let me leave until morning, but the lightning was fierce. He didn't hurt me.”

Her father looked thoughtful. “A Cherokee, you say?”

Drake nodded. “A horse thief.”

“He said his name was Storm Dancer.” Shannon balled up the handkerchief and tucked it into her pocket. “He fed me, Da, and he gave me his blanket. He had every chance to do harm to me, but he didn't.” She glared at Drake. “He has it all wrong. The Cherokee said he knew you. Said his people call you Truth Teller.”

Her father glanced toward the cook fire. “My throat's as dry as last year's corn fodder. I'd not say no to a cup of real China tea, if it was offered. I've been drinking naught but sassafras tea for a month.”

“You know this Indian?” Nathan asked.

Shannon remembered the war paint that had streaked Storm Dancer's cheeks, but she didn't speak of it. There would be time enough to tell her father when they were alone.

“Known him since he was a sprout. Winter Fox's nephew. Cherokee take big stock in their mother's kin. Hardly speak of their father's.” Her father smiled at her. “Remember how I taught you the Cherokee claim the bloodline through the mother's side?”

Hannah Clark sniffed. “A heathen notion.”

“Uncivilized,” agreed Ada Baker.

“Some do say so, mistress.” Da grinned. “But the upshot is that no babe is born on the wrong side of the blanket, so to speak.”

“No bastards, you mean?” Drake asked.

“Hush that talk in front of your mother,” Nathan chastised.

“As if I don't hear worse from you every day,” his wife retorted. “And it speaks of bastards in the Good Book so it's no sin for the boy to mention it.”

“No illegitimate children,” her father soothed. “For each babe does know its own mother.”

“What of this Cherokee?” Nathan demanded. “You know him well? My boys saw him with horses that white men was riding just that morning. He's a horse thief for certain, probably a murderer.”

Her father appeared to consider the question. “Could be he lifted those horses. A wild one is Storm Dancer according to Winter Fox. Got a following among the young men, too. It's hard for the tribal councils to control their hotheads, what with the French and the English competing for recruits among the Cherokee. Both sides offer bounties to fight for them.”

“So you agree he's a danger,” Drake said.

“Didn't say that. Known the boy since he was knee high to a beaver. Never had him steal so much as a stick of candy from my store. But he might have gone hostile. I'd watch my stock if I were you. But don't take any shots at him or any other Cherokee unless it's him or you. Cherokee are bad about seeking revenge. You kill one of them, they'll kill two or three of you in turn. They carry a blood feud worse than the Scots. Best you stay on the right side of the Cherokee if you're going to live in these mountains.”

“Maybe they'd better live like honest white men,” Nathan said. “Or get out of this territory.”

“Not likely,” her father replied. “Cherokee been here since the days of Noah and the Flood. You'll not pry them from this land in your lifetime or your grandbabies'.”

Seventeen-year-old Alice Clayton twittered as she offered him a tin cup of hot tea.

“Much obliged.” He cupped the mug in his hands and inhaled the aroma with obvious delight. “Cherokee are honest for the most part.” His eyes narrowed. “But they live by their own code. Twenty-odd years I've lived in Cherokee territory, and I've called many friends and a few enemy. No better friends…and no worse enemies.” He took a sip and smiled. “Excellent tea, miss. Excellent.”

Alice blushed and scuttled back to her mother.

“You know where to find this Storm Dancer?” Drake asked. “You can help us hunt him down?”

“Yes, and no, lad. Chances are he's somewhere in these mountains. As for sticking my nose in and leading a search party after Winter Fox's sister's boy, I'd sooner lead ye all straight to the gates of hell.”

“Maybe you been here too long, Mr. O'Shea,” Damon ventured. “You've forgot the color of your own skin.”

“It's white, when I've scrubbed off the dirt, but I know the Cherokee. I take to hunting down Storm Dancer, the lot of ye and my own family are as good as dead.” He swallowed another sip of tea. “And dead in ways ye don't want to think of, let alone bring about.”

 

Tangled in vines, Shannon struggled and cried out.

“Shannon, darlin', wake up!”

She opened her eyes to find her father peering anxiously into her face.

“Be ye sick?” He laid a calloused hand on her forehead. “You're cool. No fever. Like as not, you're worn to a nubbin from all this travel.”

Embarrassed, she sat up and threw off the blanket. Not vines or briars, just the blanket she'd tangled in. The two of them were alone, camped in a hollow under a spreading beech tree. They'd sat up late last night talking and looking up at the stars. Da named the constellations for her as he had when she was a child.

Shannon could smell porridge bubbling on the campfire. They'd left the Nathan Clark party the day before yesterday. Her father was eager to get back to the trading post, and she was more than ready to be with family, rather than the Clarks and their friends. Too long, she'd been the outsider, the orphan who didn't belong. It was strange to be with Da again, but wonderful. So why had nightmares troubled her sleep?

Not nightmares, she admitted to herself, a single dream…a dream that seemed so real she could swear she smelled the wild scent of the man who'd haunted her. She inhaled deeply, trying to compose herself. But the dream remained, so vivid that she felt her cheeks grow hot in shame.

She'd been bathing in a forest stream, naked, her fresh-washed hair wet and hanging loose around her shoulders. Heavy fog surrounded the creek, so thick that she couldn't see the banks. The water was warm, so warm that steam rose in tendrils into the moonlit sky. The woods were still and quiet, except for the occasional hoot of an owl and the chirp of insects. Peaceful…relaxing…

Until Storm Dancer invaded her solitude…her privacy…. One moment she was alone and the next he was there, standing in front of her, huge and magnificent in the moonlight…standing so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath. He must have been swimming, because beads of water rolled off his honey-bronze shoulders and down over his chest. Moonlight glinted off the planes of his face, revealing the penetrating black eyes and rough-carved cheekbones.

Startled, she'd wanted to run, but her feet seemed to have turned to stone. She couldn't move, couldn't draw breath or raise her arms to protect herself. No longer a life-and-blood woman…but a statue unable to utter a single sound.

For what seemed an eternity he stared into her eyes. And then he spoke her name. “Shan-non.”

Sweet sensations of light rippled through her. Her lips, which had been stone, parted and softened. She became aware of the thud of her heart as Storm Dancer stepped even closer. He reached out and touched her hair, lacing his fingers through the damp weight of it, stroking and murmuring her name.

Then he lifted a section of her hair, bent, and pressed his lips to her throat beneath her left ear. She still could not move, but she felt an inner trembling radiate from his kiss, sending her heart into free fall.