Cherokee Storm (9 page)

“I haven't seen anyone.” She looked around. Ahead and to the left was a rolling cornfield, but there was no one in sight. “Are you sure there's a camp here?” She was worried about her father. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he looked tired.

“You'll see.”

Minutes passed before an owl hooted from the trees. Flynn put a fist to his lips and gave a good imitation of the same bird's cry. Seconds later, a Cherokee youth dropped down from a tree branch fifty feet away. He walked toward them, and Shannon immediately saw that he walked with a limp.

“Is that…Gall!” she called. “It's good to see you.”

“And you, Shannon O'Shea.” He approached and shook her father's hand vigorously. “You make good time,” Gall said. “Three Spears saw you when you crossed Old Woman Creek. Have you come to trade or just to trade stories?” He smiled. “We will feast this night to welcome you.”

“I'm lookin' forward to it.” Flynn motioned to the pony. “Might as well scramble up again. The village is about a mile away.”

Gall led the way downhill to a wooded area. They followed a barely visible trail through the trees to a rocky river. Shannon looked longingly at the fast-moving current. She was hot and sweaty and would have traded her best ribbons for a chance to wash and cool off.

Others apparently had the same idea. Gall led them past a group of young boys, as bare as God had made them, frolicking in the shallows. When they caught sight of Shannon and her father, they shouted and pointed, then dove in and swam out into deeper water.

A few yards away, several young women were bathing infants. One round-cheeked girl with skin the color of honey, barely sixteen, glanced shyly at Shannon, smiled, and then hid her face under a fall of midnight-black hair. Shannon waved at her.

The path snaked around a sharp bend in the woods before opening into a mossy hollow. Two Indians, a man and a woman, were just emerging from the river. Gall and her father, deep in conversation, didn't seem to notice.

Shannon gasped. The woman, hair unbound around her shoulders and falling to her hips, wearing not a stitch of clothing, stood knee-deep in the water. Shamelessly, she made no effort to hide her full naked breasts or the dark curls between her legs. She stared at Shannon, then turned and said something in her own tongue to her companion behind her.

Laughing, the man plunged forward, caught her by the waist and threw her over his shoulder. She screamed playfully and pounded at his back, but he paid no heed. Instead, he waded out of the water, carrying his prize.

Hot blood scalded Shannon's cheeks and she averted her eyes, but not before she recognized the slattern's partner. It was Storm Dancer in all his glory. He was naked as a jaybird, tattoos wet and glistening, his swollen sex visible for all the world to see, and his arms wrapped around a beautiful stranger.

Suddenly seeing what she was seeing, Shannon's father grabbed her arm and spun her away from the river, pushing his horse between her and the shameful display of unclad flesh. “Sorry I be, that ye should see such,” he said, clearly embarrassed. “'Tis their heathen way.” He glanced at Gall. “No offense meant.” He quickened his pace, hurrying her along with him.

Gall shrugged and rushed to keep up, limping badly. “Your ways are as strange to the
Tsalagi,
Truth Teller. Are not all men and women made the same? Do not the white men take joy in their lovers and make babies in the same manner as we do?”

“Not something we talk about,” Flynn said. “My unmarried daughter is rightly modest.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the river. “We think that such matters should be kept private.”

“It's all right,” she protested. She could feel the rush of blood scalding her cheeks and throat.

The sight of Storm Dancer naked had been a shock, but she didn't feel shame so much as indignity. She'd seen bare breasts among the Cherokee when she was a child, but this woman was clearly a common jade to flaunt her body, exposing herself to anyone passing by. Shannon knew that some indecent women gave themselves to men, usually for money, but she'd never imagined that whores existed among the Cherokee.

Once, she'd seen her mistress whip a kitchen slut out of the tavern on Christmas Eve for plying her trade with two drunken coach passengers. The three had made a comical sight. The wench, hair unbound, barefoot, and clad only in shift and bodice, had shrieked her innocence as she ran.

One of her companions had been beer-bellied with skinny legs and a jiggling backside, and the other, a bearded and bespectacled reverend, as tall and disjointed as a beanpole, wearing nothing but his boots and hat, and clutching his Bible. The guilty men's willys had bounced like tiny, pink sausages as they fled through the crowded public room, clutching their garments and packs amid the jeers and laughter of the other guests.

Those men had looked nothing like Storm Dancer. Far from being an object of amusement, he'd been almost frightening, blatantly male, as powerful as a stallion. Shannon swallowed, trying to rid her mind of the image of his muscular chest and hard, red-bronze arms and legs…of his beautiful water-sheened skin and the all-too-certain proof of his virility.

She had not known that a man could be so well-endowed.

“Shannon?”

Suddenly she was aware of the smell of cooking fires and the bark of village dogs. With a start, she realized that they'd reached the settlement. Ahead of them, in a natural hollow, spread dozens of substantial log-and-bark structures. Indian men and women left their chores, waved, and hurried toward them. “I'm sorry, Da,” Shannon said. “What did you say?”

She had forgotten how large a Cherokee settlement could be and how sturdy their round, windowless houses and peak-roofed open shelters were. Other than their outlandish mode of dress, or undress, the people looked as well-fed and prosperous as those in the frontier settlements she'd passed through on her journey west. Perhaps these Cherokee were healthier than the whites. Even older men and women here seemed to have all their teeth, and there were no hollow-eyed children with runny noses and sores around their mouths and eyes.

A shy little fairy of a girl wearing only a tiny kilt, peeked out from behind a tree and stuck out her tongue, making Shannon laugh. Next, two naked boys, no older than five or six dashed out from behind a frame with a deerskin stretched on it to dry. The boys stopped short to stare at her. One pointed at her hair, and the other backed up, wide-eyed.

“They've probably never seen a white woman,” Flynn said, “least of all one with fair hair. The boy with the woodpecker feathers and beads in his hair is trying to convince his friend that you're a ghost.”

“They're adorable,” she replied. More and more Cherokee came to greet them, most with smiling faces. But not all seemed glad to see them. Several young men scowled and hung back, whispering among themselves, and one elderly woman with long thin braids and a face like a dried apple threw up two fingers and in a shrill voice called something that clearly wasn't pleasant.

“That is Tumbling Water, the oldest woman in six villages. She says you are evil. She makes a sign to ward off witches,” Gall explained.

“I'm no witch,” Shannon protested.

“I will tell her,” Gall said, “but I don't think she will believe me.”

There was a murmur from the crowd and heads turned. A gray-haired woman wearing a feathered cape and carrying a carved walking stick came out of one of the larger round houses. People moved aside to give her room, and Shannon knew instantly that the plump lady with the erect carriage and solemn expression was someone of importance.

“Be on your best behavior,” Flynn murmured, proving her deduction correct. “That is Split Cane, headwoman of the village.”

Split Cane had gray hair gathered into a queue at her neck, shells in her ears, and a necklace of bear claws dangled between her sagging breasts. Her leather skirt was very short, barely reaching midthigh, and she wore no garment at all above her waist.

Nudity, Shannon thought, was obviously common among the Cherokee.

 

Feather Blanket smacked Storm Dancer's bicep as hard as she could with a tight fist. “Take your eyes off Truth Teller's pale daughter,” she said.

He pried her loose from his shoulder and tossed her into the water. She came up laughing, and he grasped her around the waist again and lifted her high. “What makes you think I was looking at her? Maybe I was watching my cousin Gall.”

“Gall?” She wrinkled her nose. “That one is not worth a flea on a dog's back. You were staring at the woman with the yellow hair. Don't you believe that is an unnatural color for a human's hair?”

“Hadn't thought about it.”

“Liar.”

He pulled her close, and she wrapped her bare legs around his waist. “Do you dare to call a warrior a liar?”

She leaned against him and nibbled at his lower lip. “You might fool some, but not me. I know you too well.” She leaned back in his arms. “She is trouble, my friend, far too much trouble. You would be better to make your match with Cardinal and be done with it.”

“There is time.” He kissed Feather Blanket and carried her to the far bank where she'd left her kilt and moccasins. “Neither of us is in a hurry.”

“The women will not be satisfied until you have fulfilled the prophesy. You are the chosen one and you must do your duty to your people as Cardinal must.” Feather Blanket wrung the water out of her hair, tied it back with a leather thong, and fastened her fringed doeskin skirt around her hips. “Come to my lodge later when Corncob is sleeping. I will make you forget the yellow-haired woman with skin like river clay.”

He patted her pretty bottom. “You are insatiable.”

She laughed. “Yes, I am.” She ran honey-colored fingers over her woman's mound in an open invitation to tarry longer. “Have I tired you, mighty warrior?”

He ignored her teasing. “And there is nothing to forget. Shannon O'Shea is nothing to me.”

Feather Blanket chuckled. “Shannon? You know her name? If you truly believe that she means nothing to you, you are more of a fool than I think you are.”

He smiled at her. “Most men are fools when it comes to women, aren't they?” He drew her into his arms and nuzzled her neck. “Friends?”

“If you come to me tonight, we are friends. Otherwise, I will think less of you and find another to warm my blanket.”

He caught her chin in his hand and raised it so that he could press his mouth to hers. Her tongue brushed his and she wiggled out of his arms. “There are none like you. And as soon as you see the back of me departing this village, you will tumble another man.”

She laughed again, her amusement as clear and sweet as a silver bell. “You know me too well. Save your flattery and your strength for Truth Teller's daughter. Although I doubt her thighs will be as soft and sweet as mine.”

“Enough of her.”

“Deceive yourself, if you will,” she answered, “but I know the look of a man struck by lightning. Take care, Storm Dancer. If her father sees you sniffing around her, he will fill that empty head of yours with cold lead.”

He turned away from her, donned his own leather kilt and vest, and strung the strap holding his blowgun over one shoulder. Snatching up his knife, sheath, and belt, he strode away without another word. The truth of Feather Blanket's words burned like live coals in the pit of his belly, and he could protest no longer.

Shannon O'Shea had caught him in a web of sorcery. She haunted his dreams and sapped his will. Not even Feather Blanket's charms could break the spell. He had cheated her even as he'd driven his swollen shaft deep into her cleft…as he'd poured his seed into her womb and spanned her thrusting hips with his hands. He had shared the dance of love with Feather Blanket but in his mind it had been Shannon's flesh he had embraced, her mouth he had kissed, and her he had given his life fluid to.

Feather Blanket was right. Nothing good could come of his longing for Truth Teller's yellow-haired daughter. He was promised to Cardinal. He could never offer Shannon his protection…his promise to love only her so long as they each lived.

He had been lost in thoughts of her when he'd gone to her father's house and wooed her with his bone flute. He had wanted her so badly that night, wanted to hold her, to whisper his longing into her ears. But then reality had hit him with full force in the worst possible way. An owl had flown up almost under his feet and hovered within arm's length—a white omen of doom. Surely, no owl of blood and flesh but one of fog and spirit, a ghost owl, promising disaster and death for them both if he continued on his heedless path.

Still, he had not departed as the owl surely wanted. He had lingered, watching Shannon from the shadows, feeling the pull of her heart to his. Only after she'd returned to the safety of her father's compound had he mounted his horse and ridden for this village, where he could find wise counsel…. Where he could drown his desire for one woman in the arms of another.

But she had come after him. As certain as rain after rolling thunder, Shannon had followed him to this place of sanctuary. She had seen him with Feather Blanket, and she knew that he had been intimate with her. For an instant, their gazes had locked. The invisible tie had not severed. He wanted her more than ever…more than honor…more than duty.

He must possess her or die.

 

The village welcomed Shannon and her father as if they were family, pressing fresh-cooked meat, Indian bread, sweet berries, and gourds of honey water on them until she couldn't eat another bite. Women gathered around her, touching her hair and chattering to her in a mixture of English and Cherokee. A few words and phrases seemed familiar, but for the most, she had to communicate with smiles and gestures.

One young girl tugged at Shannon's hand and repeatedly entreated her to come with her. Shannon glanced at her father who seemed deep in conversation with Split Cane and an older man. Da still looked tired, and she hoped that he'd have an opportunity to rest before nightfall. “Flynn, excuse me. What does she want?”

“Dove is inviting you to bathe with her.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It's a warm day, and you've ridden a long way. The Cherokee are great ones for washing.”

“Should I go?”

He shrugged. “If you like. There are things I must discuss with the elders, once the formalities are out of the way.”

“Is it safe?”

“Aye. No one will harm you, and no men will dare spy on your bath. As guests, we're safer than the Holy Father in Saint Peter's Chapel. Dove is Split Cane's favorite granddaughter. I've known the colleen since she was a sprig.”

“All right.” She turned back to the girl. She wasn't as young as Shannon had first thought, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and very pretty with slanting almond eyes and hair like black satin. Petite, Dove stood no higher than her own shoulder.

“You come?” Dove asked. “Come…” She seemed at a loss for the right word until the six-year-old boy with the woodpecker feathers and beads in his hair wiggled forward through the throng of onlookers.

“I make the talk,” he proclaimed. “Woodpecker has the good English.”

“You do,” Shannon agreed, chuckling. “Are you called Woodpecker?”

“He is!” the boy said, speaking of himself in the third person. A wide grin spread over his face, and she saw that he was missing a front tooth. “He be Woodpecker!”

“I am happy to meet you.” Shannon took his extended hand and shook it. Please tell Dove that I will come with her to wash.”

It was true she needed a bath. Her arms and legs were dusty from the trail, and her fingers sticky from the honey water. She imagined what her hair must look like. She'd always liked to be clean. At the tavern, her mistress had chided her for how much hot water and soap she used.

Odd, how the Cherokee and whites had different ideas about morality and personal hygiene. These Indians had an unusual smell, almost a musty scent. Not unpleasant, but different from her own kind. But with all the women and men, she caught no odor of body sweat other than what her father emitted.

Dove smiled shyly. “You come,” she repeated.

“Now come.” Woodpecker tugged at Shannon's hand.

She rose from the ground, stretched the kinks out of her legs, and followed the two, trailed by a troop of chattering children and adolescent girls. The village was as lively and fascinating as Shannon remembered a Cherokee settlement her father had taken her to when she was young.

Most of the Cherokee lived in sturdy round houses in extended family groups, but in warm weather, as it was now, most slept in what appeared to be long, open sheds. Kettles of stew hung over cooking fires at every hearth, and children—who were rarely scolded for any mischief—ate when and where they pleased. The homes were scattered, not arranged in orderly lines as in towns back East, but the hard-packed paths were swept clean of trash, and all seemed in order.