Cherokee Storm (7 page)

“Storm Dancer? Are you out there?” she called softly. The little bird was beautiful, each feather and curve perfect. It was a wren, carved of cedar and sweet smelling. It was so lifelike, she almost expected it to take wing and fly out of her hands. “Storm Dancer?” she called again as she peered into the darkness.

From somewhere she could just make out the faint melody of a flute. She shivered. She knew that sound from childhood, remembered her father telling her that it was a courting song. She drew in a deep breath. Oona was right; they were playing with fire.

He was out there—she knew it. She cradled the little wren in her hands as memories of another gift enveloped her. She hid the wooden wren under her pillow and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The fire had died to coals, but she didn't need light. One stone on the hearth was always loose.

Shannon knelt and eased the stone free of its rocky bed. Beneath, wrapped in oiled cloth, she'd kept her treasures when she was a child: a blue stone that she'd been certain had been magic, a crumbling bit of red silk ribbon, a silver penny, and a carved cedar wolf so small it could fit into the palm of her hand.

Moisture blurred her vision. She raised the wolf to her nose and sniffed. Could she still smell the cedar? She was certain she could. So long ago…She'd been seven, and it was her birthday. Her mother had promised her a cake and new ribbons for her hair for her Saint's name day, but when the day had finally arrived, there had been important guests, a British officer and so many soldiers that they'd filled the compound. Her parents were busy, and when she'd tried to remind her mother that it was her special day, Mam had scolded her. Instead of presents, her mother had told her that she was too old for such nonsense. Couldn't she see that the water pail needed refilling?

Shannon had told herself she wouldn't cry, not then, not now. She'd taken the bucket and trudged, barefoot as she was now, down the path to the spring, her heart so heavy with self-pity that it was a wonder it didn't burst through her chest. Her special day that she'd waited for had come, but no one had time for her, and no one cared.

No one but her friend Otter.

He was waiting for her at the spring, sitting on his spotted pony and smiling that slow, sweet smile of his. He'd remembered her birthday, and he'd carved the little wolf for her. She held up Otter's gift and her throat constricted. It was a boy's gift, crudely made. The animal's head was too big for the body, the tail too short, and the eyes too large, but she loved it all the same. He'd made it for her, and she cherished it.

Storm Dancer hadn't forgotten her. Today wasn't her birthday, but she'd been feeling low…struggling to rebuild a bond with her father…trying to fit in to his new family. Storm Dancer had remembered the wolf he carved for her and he'd made the little wren to lift her spirits. He might not be the sweet boy she'd known years ago, but he would never harm her. For the rest of it, the way she dreamed of the man Otter had become or her own wanton feelings…she had no answer. She had only herself to blame.

She only knew she wanted to see him now…to press her body to his, and feel his warm breath on her face. No, not wanted. Wanted was wrong. She
had
to touch him,
had
to know that he was real and not just something she had conjured out of the depths of her being.

She wrapped her precious treasures and put them back in their secret spot. She settled the stone in place and scattered ashes over the top so no one would notice that the stone had been removed. Then, she crossed the worn board floor and slipped out into the cool night.

She had to still this restless yearning that swelled inside of her. And if it meant her downfall…her shame…nothing mattered but pressing her mouth to his, breathing in his breath, and feeling the throb of his heart against hers.

How had Storm Dancer gotten inside the locked trading post compound to leave the wren? And how, Shannon wondered, had he gotten out again without alarming the dogs? The little carved bird was real—not a figment of her dream. He'd been here, and she had to find him.

She didn't go to the main gate, the one that stood open in the daytime and was barred tonight. She chose the narrow door that opened behind the cabins, wide enough only for a single person to go through, only if they were small in stature or ducked low.

Flynn called it the postern gate, and this too was barred with three heavy wooden crosspieces set into iron brackets. In case of an attack by hostiles, the small gate provided almost as formidable a barrier as the front entranceway. The hinges to the postern were mounted on the inside and the door disguised, so only someone familiar with the passageway would know that it wasn't part of the stockade fence.

Moonlight illuminated the meadow, but no matter how hard Shannon stared, she could make out no silhouette of a man. She had been certain that the flute music had come from this side of the compound. Now, the flute was silent and she no longer could be certain of the direction. Which way to go?

“Storm Dancer,” she ventured. Her voice rang loud above the chirp of insects. A great horned owl hooted, but no copper-skinned warrior strode through the knee-high grass.

Thoughts of the great gray wolves that ranged these mountains made her shiver. As a child, she'd often heard them howling on winter nights. Less seen but even more deadly was the lone puma. The big cat could strike without a sound, slash her mortally with razor-sharp claws, and devour her before she could cry out. She'd never seen a living mountain lion, but Cherokee had come to trade for their hides, and she'd seen one hunter whose face and arms had been scarred by the claws.

Shannon knew she had no business outside the wall at night. What if a French patrol or a Shawnee war party chanced by? She should go back inside before it was too late, but she couldn't….

Storm Dancer had been at her window. He had brought the carved bird. He must have known that she'd come out to him. What game was he playing? Did he realize what his presence had done to her? Could he be so cruel?

She turned around and then around again. She called his name and waited, straining to hear the bone flute again. Another owl on a far hillside answered the first; rabbits and small creatures rustled in the grass, but no tall man strode from the forest to meet her.

She waited. Gradually, her anticipation became disappointment and she turned back toward the compound. If the wren wasn't there, under her pillow where she'd hidden it, she'd know that she was dreaming again. But when she had slipped through the doorway, rebarred the gate, and entered the cabin, she found Storm Dancer's gift where she'd hidden it in her bed.

It hadn't been her imagination. He had come and left her the wren.

Dreamless, she slept that night with the wooden bird locked in her fingers. It was still there when she woke, and she tucked it into her traveling case, beneath her undergarments, before going to the keeping room to start breakfast. She was first up for once, and by the time Oona entered the kitchen, journey cake was browning on the baking stone and the oat porridge was bubbling.

The Indian woman went to the fireplace, peered into the kettle of porridge, stirred the bread batter to check the consistency, and lifted the lid of the teapot to smell the brew. Only then did she glance at Shannon and nod. “Good,” Oona said. And, “You have added willow bark to the China tea leaves.”

Shannon smiled. “Yes. I thought it would make the tea last longer. And willow bark will ease your morning stomach.” She had heard Oona being sick in the morning and guessed that her pregnancy was a difficult one.

Oona nodded her approval once more. “There will be little difference in the taste. You know about willow?”

“And wintergreen. When I was little, Da used to brew them for my bellyaches.”

“Truth Teller is wise. Most whites do not want Indian medicine.” Oona took three mugs from the shelf and poured tea. “They would rather suffer than believe that a savage might know something about healing they don't.”

Shannon used a flat wooden tool to turn the bread. “Ignorance makes people afraid. A woman at the tavern where I was indentured burned her arm and legs making soap. It was so bad that they called a doctor for her. He bled her and smeared the burns with tallow.”

Oona's dark eyes flickered with interest. “Did she die, this woman?”

Shannon swallowed against the constriction in her throat. Mable had screamed for four days until her voice gave out. The stench was so bad that the mistress had her carried to the barn. “The burns sickened and fever took her.” But not soon enough….

“Snakeroot is good for burns.” She touched the scar on her cheek. “Both a tea and a poultice for the burns.”

Shannon nodded. It was strange how she rarely noticed Oona's burn anymore. “Once, when I was small,” she said, “I burned my finger on a nail I pulled from the fire. Da crushed violet leaves into a paste, and it took away the hurt.”

“Violet is good.”

“Yes, and so is cattail root. I wish I knew more about healing.”

“There are other plants my mother taught me,” Oona admitted. “She was a powerful medicine woman. Many sick and injured came to her door.”

Shannon nodded, and Oona went on. “Gold thread makes a fine yellow dye, and the roots of squaw flower are good for a woman in labor. If you want, I will show you when to gather them and how they are to be used.”

“I'd like that,” Shannon said. If she knew about Indian medicine, she might prevent the death of someone, perhaps even someone she loved, like her dear friend Anna.

“That's what I like to see.” Her father came out of the bedroom and joined Oona at the table. “The two of you getting on as family should.”

Shannon brought the first plate of journey cake to the table. When Oona rose to help with the rest of the breakfast, Shannon held up her hand. “No, please, let me. I've been a guest here long enough.” She went back for the kettle of porridge. “It's going to be a fair day. I saw three does at the spring.”

“Three is a lucky number,” her father agreed. “Like the three of us at table.” He chuckled and bowed his head to offer the morning prayer.

Shannon slid onto the bench across from the two of them. She and Oona might not be the best of friends, but a small crack had opened. With luck, things between them would improve. They were alone so much of the time that being at odds with each other would be terrible. Perhaps the native remedies would prove the means to narrow the breach between them.

 

It was late afternoon that day and Shannon was scrubbing the hearth stones when her father shouted to her through the open door.

“Leave the bucket and change your apron,” he said. “We have a guest.”

She glanced back at the stones. Only a quarter of the hearth was left to do, but obediently she rose from her knees and wiped her hands on her work apron. “Shouldn't I finish here first?”

“No, darlin'.” He grinned at her from the doorway. “Someone has come to bring you a gift. Go fix your hair and pinch your cheeks or whatever you women do to entice us. Step lively now.” He hesitated. “And say nothing about Oona.”

“Oona? Why?”

“Her being Indian. 'Tis not something I brag about, having her here.”

“Are you ashamed of her?” It was true that her father's woman hadn't welcomed her into their home, but if he didn't mind sleeping with her, why did it matter what others thought of their relationship?

“It would be bad for trade if some white men knew of it. Not that it's any of their affair.”

“All right,” she agreed. “I won't say anything. But who is it that's come?”

“You'll see soon enough. T'will please you, I'm sure.”

Puzzled, she did as he bade her. She washed her face and hands, removed the apron and donned a spotless white one, pinned up the stray tendrils of hair that had fallen loose around her face, and fastened her mother's cameo brooch at her throat.

The first thing she saw when she stepped onto the porch was the cow tied to the hitching rail. Not just any cow, but the devil's own horned minion, Betty. Her heart sank. Not Storm Dancer come to see her, but one of the Clark twins. It had to be. Why had they brought the damnable cow here?

She knew the answer. She simply didn't want to accept it.

“There she is,” her father called. “There's my girl.”

Drake Clark came out of the store and doffed his wide-brimmed hat in greeting. He was wearing the same blue shirt he'd worn the day Betty had run away and she'd gotten lost in the woods. His sandy blond hair was damp and he seemed even more solid than when she'd seen him last. “Miss Shannon.”

“Drake.” She nodded. She'd forgotten how good-looking he was.

Drake grinned and thrust out his chest.

Cocky as ever,
Shannon thought. “What brings you here?”

“He brought you a fine present,” Flynn said. “This cow. What do you say to that?”

“No, thank you. I don't…I mean…” She took a breath and tried again. “I'm honored,” she said, brushing at an imaginary wrinkle in her apron, “but I can't accept such an expensive gift.” What was a cow worth out here? More money than she wanted to think of. But she didn't want a cow, and she didn't want this one. She'd never been fond of milk. “Your mother,” she began. “Betty belongs to her.”

“Ma's got enough cows to tend. 'Sides, I paid her for Betty fair and square,” Drake said, striding forward. “Thought we have five milk cows and you none. We got more than we need. And a woman needs a cow for butter and such.”

“I'm sorry. I can't…”

Drake's brow furrowed. “I'd be obliged if you'd accept the animal. If I recall, you make a fine bread pudding.”

“Of course, she will,” her father said. “Come on into the house and take dinner with us. I want to hear all the news. Is your family settled in?”

Drake brushed against Shannon as he stepped through the doorway, and for an instant, he pressed his body against hers. She gasped as excitement made her pulse quicken. Damn the man. He was too forward by far. Still, something bold inside her was stirred by his presence.

Fixing her with a self-satisfied look, Drake crossed the kitchen and settled himself at the table. Shannon glanced around for Oona, but the Indian woman had obviously made herself scarce. It was up to her to whip up a meal that wouldn't shame Flynn's hospitality.

“Ma sent butter and a side of bacon,” Drake said. “And another envelope of tea leaves. Can't abide the stuff myself, but she said you favor it.”

“That I do,” her father proclaimed. “As any self-respecting Irishman would.”

Shannon took down cornmeal, honey, and salt from the shelf. She'd put corn bread in the iron spider to bake and added vegetables to the stew Oona had served the night before.

“Drake's got his own place,” Flynn said. “A cabin and two hundred acres more or less of prime valley land.”

“I got a good cabin with a root cellar dug underneath and barrels of salt pork and cornmeal stowed for the winter,” Drake said. “It's good farming country. If I work hard, I'll do well.”

“I thought this was all Cherokee hunting ground,” she said.

“Not Green Valley,” her father explained. “It's a far sight from here. The Cherokee consider the mountain and valley cursed. The Cherokee don't hunt there, and they don't camp there.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” Drake said, “but good for us. My pa bought more than two thousand acres off an Indian chief for next to nothing.”

“He bought it from a half-breed Creek Indian who was no more chief than I am.” Da chuckled. “Cherokee don't sell land. They think it's like air, a gift from the Creator. A man can't own it any more than he can own the rain.”

“One Indian's the same as another to me,” Drake said. “And Pa's got a deed that will stand up in a white man's court.”

“It is good land,” Flynn agreed. “You'll do well, so long as the war don't sweep over these mountains. If it does, we'll all be blown away like last year's dry leaves.”

“If war comes, we'll give the Frenchies what for,” Drake boasted.

“Doubtless,” Shannon put in. Drake echoed his father when it came to politics, and like most men, he was always eager to fight, rather than find other ways to settle disagreements.

“And I'm claiming more upland acres, good for grazing.” Drake folded his arms and leaned back. “Pa's raising beef for Fort Hood, but I've a mind to breed horses. Good horseflesh is rare out here and more folks comin' all the time. Reckon I'll be needing a helpmate soon.”

Shannon pretended not to hear. The morning before, Oona had found a clutch of duck eggs near the creek. It wasn't often that they had eggs, and she'd saved them for a special treat. Shannon decided to add them to the cornmeal mixture with some of the butter and the salt and honey.

She didn't look at Drake, but didn't need to. She could feel his gaze on her. It was obvious that he'd come courting, and she wouldn't have been human if she hadn't thrilled a little to the thought. No matter how well she tried to hide it, she wasn't immune to his charms.

Drake cut a fine figure with his broad shoulders and clear blue eyes. He had a way about him, and he was all man. No wife of his would ever have to worry about a roof over her head or food in her belly…. No wife of his would lie awake in her bed pleasuring herself.

On the trip out from Virginia, Drake had made it clear that he was interested in her. At first, she'd believed it was just that he was trying to see if he could get under her skirts, but even after she'd put a firm stop to that, he'd kept watching her. She hadn't wanted to encourage him. She'd hoped that once she left the Clarks, he'd turn his attention to the Clayton girl. Alice was only seventeen, but settled, more ready to be a married woman than she was.