Читать книгу Cherokee Storm - Janelle Taylor - Страница 10

The sun was well up when Shannon threw open the shutters in her room the following morning. She was shocked at the time. She’d had every intention of rising early the morning after her arrival and helping with the household chores. She was used to working at the tavern from before dawn until bedtime, and she didn’t want her father or Oona to think her lazy. But the long hours of travel had taken their toll, and she’d slept much later than she’d wanted to. She hoped tomorrow she’d wake earlier and make a better impression.

Feather ticks made her bed as soft as a cloud. No wonder she’d slept as soundly as a child. Although the addition Da had built to the cabin wasn’t large, there was space in her room for a cherry poster bed, a brassbound mahogany chest, a butterfly table, and a small mirror. The bed had been fashioned of local wood, but the other pieces had been her mother’s and had originally come from Shannon Hall in Ireland. And although the bed was handmade and not made by a craftsman, someone had taken the trouble to carve a garland of beech leaves twining around each post.

The scenery from her open window was so beautiful that it brought tears to her eyes. Wooded mountains fell away into the distance, and below in the valley a rocky creek wound its way through a flower-strewn meadow, the racing water as white and frothy as meringue on a lemon pie. High above the creek, an eagle soared, wings spread wide, proud white head etched against a cloudless sky as vividly blue as Mary’s cloak.

Reluctant to break the enchantment, but well aware that she couldn’t avoid Oona’s disapproving glare, Shannon hurriedly dressed, twisted her hair into a knot, and splashed cold water on her face. Had she dreamed of Storm Dancer at all last night?

She touched her bottom lip, remembering the taste of Storm Dancer’s mouth. It had been despicable of him to spy on her, and if she should be ashamed of touching herself for pleasure, his behavior was worse. What man worth his salt would take advantage of a woman in her weakest moment? And when she’d confronted him, he’d laughed at her. It was mortifying.

What had happened later—when she’d allowed him to kiss her—was a greater mistake. It could never happen again. If her father guessed that she’d permitted an Indian to kiss her, he’d be furious, perhaps angry enough to send her away.

Storm Dancer was Cherokee; she was a white woman. Their worlds were too far apart to allow such intimacies. What was wrong with her that she could be tempted by the man? She’d never believed herself to be a saint, but she hadn’t thought she suffered from the sin of lust.

She would have to return the pony. Keeping such a valuable gift from Storm Dancer was out of the question. Explaining where it had come from would be impossible. It had been an act of kindness for him to loan her the animal, but Storm Dancer would have to take it back. Surely, her father would see the reason in that. She would talk to Da about it after breakfast.

But when she stepped into the main room of the cabin, the keeping room, containing the kitchen and sitting area, she found it empty. It was obvious that Da and Oona had already eaten without her. Breakfast bowls and cups were drying upside down on the trestle table, and a pan of flatbread hung on a hook at the back of the fireplace. Someone, probably Oona, had set a place for her at the table: a bowl of porridge, a pewter mug of peppermint tea, and a handful of berries waited. The porridge was cold and the tea unsweetened. Shannon nibbled at the berries, grabbed a piece of flatbread, and went outside.

The trading post consisted of the house, a fortlike, log, two-story structure that served as the store, a stable, another smaller cabin that provided shelter for passing customers, and several lean-to storage sheds. Da had cut down all the trees around the buildings except a few large ones, and erected a ten-foot palisade of upright logs sharpened to points on the top around the entire compound. There was a double gate reinforced with iron hinges that Shannon had rarely seen closed when she was a child.

Today was no exception. The doors to the post enclosure stood wide and welcoming, and the narrow Dutch door to the store was open. Three horses stamped impatiently at the hitching post in front of the store. Da’s pack of dogs milled by the step, eyes keen, ears pricked, alert, as if waiting for a command. When they saw Shannon, they trotted over and surrounded her, sniffing curiously and eyeing her flatbread. She’d noticed the hounds last night, but none were those she remembered from childhood. They seemed well behaved, as Da’s dogs always were. Flynn’s dogs, she corrected herself.

“No begging,” she said, lifting her bread out of reach of a lean, black and tan bitch with one ragged ear. Shannon was hungry, and she intended to eat it herself. As she crossed the yard, curious to see who was in the store, she heard the faint tinkling of bells. Oona came around the corner of the house leading the pony that Storm Dancer had given her. “Good morning,” Shannon said.

Oona acknowledged Shannon’s greeting with a quick nod that set the tiny silver bells in her pierced ears jingling and handed her the animal’s rope. Shannon passed her uneaten bread to her other hand and took the pony’s lead.

“Water.” Oona motioned toward the hard-packed path that led away from the cabin. “Spring is—”

“I know where the spring is. I grew up here. Remember?” Shannon had fetched water for her mother as long as she could remember. The source of drinking water and the pretty glade around it had been her favorite spot as a child. Da had nearly convinced her that there were Irish fairies living at the bottom of the pool, and she’d spent long warm afternoons lying in the grass looking for them.

“Good,” Oona said.

“Did someone come to trade this morning?” Shannon asked, although it was obvious they had visitors. She didn’t think the horses in the yard belonged to white men. Only one horse wore a saddle, and that was a crude affair of wood and hide. “Are they Indians?”

Oona stared at her for long seconds, and Shannon wondered if she would answer her question at all. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as Flynn, and slender with delicate hands and a graceful walk. She was younger than Shannon had thought last night, probably no more than twenty-five.

Today, the Indian woman had braided her blue-black hair into a single thick plait, and she was wearing moccasins and a blue cloth dress that fell just below her knees. The garment was loose and shapeless, but the seams were neatly stitched and bright red beads decorated the hem and neckline. In the daylight, Shannon could see the scar on Oona’s cheek better, and it was evident that the disfigurement was the result of an old burn, long since healed.

Oona brushed her cheek with her fingertips. “It frighten you?”

“No, of course not.” Shannon tried again. “Who do the horses belong to? Do we have customers?”

“Cherokee come to buy powder.” She held up three fingers. “Ghost Elk, Runs Alongside Bear, and Gall.” At the last name, Oona grimaced as though she’d bit into a sour plum, then placed her hand on one knee and took several limping steps. “Gall,” she repeated, and spat on the hard-packed ground.

Shannon wanted to see the Cherokee customers, but it was clear that Oona expected her to tend to the pony’s needs first. And above all, Shannon wanted to end this uncomfortable conversation. Nodding agreement, she led the pony away from the cabin toward the main gate.

Oona picked up a bucket and held it out. “Water for house.”

“Yes, of course. I can do that.” Again, Shannon felt awkward, uncertain. What was her place here? Did her father’s common-law-wife expect her to obey her as she might her own mother? Or was she to act as an unpaid servant? It wasn’t the chore that offended her—she wanted to help. It was Oona’s unfriendly manner.

The pony stretched out his neck and neatly snatched the flatbread from Shannon’s hand. Oona chuckled. “He’s a thief, that one.”

“We’ll have to teach you better,” Shannon said. “If you stay.” She had to admit that there was something very endearing about the animal. As Flynn had promised, the pony had carried her uphill and down, across creeks, and through thick woods without ever missing a step.

The pony plodded after her as she led it through the entrance. She followed the worn trail through trees that had grown taller since she’d last seen them, around a bend, and up a slight incline, her heart feeling lighter with each step. Everything smelled as she remembered it. This felt like home.

As she circled a massive outcrop of rock and entered the hollow where the spring flowed out of the hill, she stopped short. Someone was there ahead of her. A slight figure in a fringed leather shirt and leggings was kneeling at the pool’s edge. By the Cherokee turban and ink-black hair, she supposed the stranger must be an Indian.

The boy glanced up and raised one palm in greeting. Immediately, she saw that although he was not very tall, he wasn’t a child.

“You are Truth Teller’s daughter.” The stranger took a step, limping heavily on one leg that was shorter than the other. “Welcome home. Your father is glad to have you here.”

Shannon walked forward to meet him. “You must be…” She tried to remember the names of the visiting Cherokee Oona had mentioned. “Gall?”

“Yes, yes.” He laughed merrily, and she saw that that the young man’s eyes were not brown like all of the other Indians she’d ever known, but light gray. “I am Gall. And you are Shan-nan.”

In contrast to Oona, Gall was small and light-skinned, not much taller than she was. His dark hair fell to shoulder length, topped with a red and yellow turban, and his fine-boned face as soft and pretty as a girl’s. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, extending her hand. “And it’s Shannon.”

Gall clasped her fingers stiffly and shook her hand up and down. “I hope you will not be lonely here,” he said. “There are no white women near.” His English was good, less accented even than Storm Dancer’s, but higher pitched and slightly lisping. Shell earrings hung from each dainty ear, and his hunting shirt bore a pattern of white flowers stitched along the neckline.

The pony pushed past her to sink his nose deep into the pool and drink. “I hope my father has what you need today,” Shannon said.

Gall studied the pony. “I know this animal. His name is Badger. He belongs to my mother’s friend, Corn Woman. Where did you get him?”

“Someone gave him to me. A Cherokee,” she explained, stumbling over her words. “A man named Storm Dancer gave him to me.”

Gall looked dubious. “If you say my cousin gave you this pony, I must believe you. Truth Teller’s daughter would not lie. But how do you know Storm Dancer? He is not a friend to the whites.”

“He said he was a friend of my father. No,” she corrected. “He said his uncle was. Winter Fox. I thought…Is Winter Fox your father?”

For the first time, the amusement faded from Gall’s gray eyes. “No, he is not. I am the son of Luce Pascal, called Big Pascal. It was a joke, you see, because my mother says he was not so tall as me. My father, this Luce Pascal, was a French trader of furs, but he went back across the sea when I was a child, and I do not know if he lives or not.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My mother is Tsalagi—Cherokee—so I am Cherokee. You see? Among our people, it is the mother who matters.”

“It’s what my father said.” The pony finished drinking and began to munch mouthfuls of new grass beside the pool. Shannon scratched his withers. “But with us…the whites…a father means everything.”

“So I have been told.” He limped to the other side of the pony and smiled at her over the animal’s back. “I will ask my mother’s friend if her pony has wandered, or if she sold him to my cousin.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“Badger is a mischievous pony,” he continued, “always getting into the green cornfields and knocking down the smoking racks. She might have sold him.” He pulled a burr from the pony’s hide. “I would be your friend, if you want.”

She nodded. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He hesitated. “But you must take care with my cousin. Storm Dancer is…How do you say it? His head is hot?”

“A hothead?”

“Just so. The high council of the Cherokee has voted to support the English, not the French, but my cousin argues against the decision. It is a bad thing to do. We are a people of law. But Storm Dancer will not listen to reason. He goes his own way. I think he may take the French silver to fight against your people. And if he does, other foolish young men will follow him.”

“He could have hurt me, but he didn’t.”

Gall pursed his lips. “My mother says he is dangerous and will lead us to war. My mother is a wise woman. Take care, Shan-non. My cousin wears two faces. If he gave you this pony, he had a reason. I only hope that Corn Woman sold him. It would be a bad thing if you had a stolen Tsalagi pony. People would not understand.”

“I agree. I didn’t want to accept the gift, but my father said it would be an insult not to.”

“Maybe a worse thing to keep it. Among your people, do women take gifts from men?”

“Small things, impersonal. Not expensive things like a horse.” She could see that the conversation was becoming too complicated. “You could return the pony for me.”

He sighed. “I can not. We travel west, away from Corn Woman’s village. And I do not want to make my cousin angry with me. He is not a man you want angry. This is between you and Storm Dancer, I think.” He tilted his head and peered into her face. “You are a pretty woman, I think, even if your skin is too pale. Your hair is like corn silk. I have never seen a woman with yellow hair. Are many of your tribe like you?”

“Some.” She brushed a stray lock away from her face. His manner had been so open and friendly, she hadn’t expected the conversation to turn personal. And there could be no doubt that his gaze was more than casual. He was staring at her in exactly the same way as the Clark twins did when they thought she wasn’t looking.

“Mary Shannon!”

She turned at the sound of her father’s voice. He and two Indian men were walking down the trail toward the pool. The Cherokee were leading the three horses. She could see that the animals wore heavy packs. “Here, Flynn.”

He smiled at her. “Runs Alongside Bear, Ghost Elk, this is my daughter,” he said. And then to her, continued, “I see you’ve already met Gall.”

“Yes,” she answered, “and he tells me that he is a cousin of Storm Dancer.”

Ghost Elk frowned and said something to his companion in his own language. Runs Alongside Bear, a stout, middle-aged man with a wide band of red cloth tied around his head, kept his features immobile.

Her father’s mouth tightened, and then he chuckled with a forced sense of heartiness. “These men tell me they speak no English. They are some of my best customers.” He turned and repeated his words in Cherokee. “But they are good bargainers.”

“Very good,” Gall said.

“Oui.” Ghost Elk signed with his hands. “No Englaise.” Ghost Elk was older than Gall but younger than Runs Alongside Bear. He was short and muscular with a broad face and three dots tattooed down his chin.

“Don’t bet on it,” her father said with a wink. He shook hands with each man in turn and presented them with a small cloth bag of tobacco as a gift. “Next time you come, I’ll try to have that red cloth.”

A few more pleasantries were exchanged in a mixture of English and Cherokee, and then the three Indians mounted and rode off through the woods. Before they vanished into the trees, Gall turned and waved at her, and she returned the wave.

“Best not to mention Storm Dancer to anyone,” Da said quietly. “He’s not in favor with the council according to Ghost Elk.”

“Gall said that this pony belonged to his mother’s friend, a woman named Corn.” She took hold of the animal’s halter. “I feel guilty about keeping him. Gall thought…”

“Don’t put too much stock in what Gall says. He’s half-French. Cherokee are devious, but a half-breed is worse.” Her father shook his head. “Gall is way too talkative for a Cherokee. He pretends to be a harmless fool, but I think he’s far from it.”

“Da.” She stared at him. “It isn’t like you to judge someone by the color of their skin.” She thought with a start that men would label Da’s child with Oona that name—half-breed. She wondered if it was fair to bring an innocent baby into the world where it would never truly belong to white or Cherokee.

“It’s not the Indian half I worry about in Gall,” Da said. “It’s the French half. The boy’s never done me wrong, but I never feel quite easy with him. Oona don’t think much of him, I can tell you.” He turned back toward the house.

Leading the pony, Shannon fell into step beside him. “I gathered that much—that Oona didn’t like Gall.” She kept thinking of the baby, her new brother or sister. Would it look Indian or Irish? She vowed to love it, no matter. A mixed-blood child would face prejudice from all sides and would need all the champions he or she could get.

“Oona’s a pretty good judge of character,” her father mused.

“I don’t think she likes me.”

“Give her time. Oona doesn’t know you. She’s never known any white women. She’s just shy.”

“I hope you’re right.” Shannon didn’t think it was shyness…more like jealousy. “I want to…Oh, I forgot the bucket of water.” She glanced back. The bucket was lying where she’d dropped it near the spring. “Can you take him? I’ll get the water.”

“Come back to the store after you fetch the water, and we’ll get started. I want to give you the prices on our bestselling trade goods. Some things are locked up for safekeeping.” He pulled a rawhide cord from under his shirt and showed her a key. “I do the trading for powder, shot, and steel hatchets.”

She nodded and walked back toward the pool. She was eager to learn all about the business. Buying and selling goods had always interested her, although she’d had little chance to develop her skills at the tavern. She didn’t want to be a burden on her father.

She picked up the bucket and carried it to the spot where clear water rushed and bubbled out of the rock. She rinsed out the container and began to fill it, conscious of the tranquility and beauty of this spot. How many times in the past years she had wished she was here…a child again without worries or fears…an only child who knew how much she was loved by both her parents.

It seemed to her as if the trees were bigger here than in Virginia…their branches more massive…the leaves greener. Even the sky seemed larger…higher…the blue more intense. She closed her eyes and drank in the familiar scents of the warm rock, the lush moss, and wildflowers spilling down the hillside. Maybe her father was right…maybe this was the closest either of them would ever be to heaven.

Sighing, Shannon opened her eyes and held the bucket under the spring until the water reached the rim. Why, she wondered, had her mother never fallen in love with this unspoiled wilderness? Why had she longed for the dark, crowded streets of her native—

A voice tore her from her reverie.

“I have thirst. Will you let me drink from your spring?”

She whirled around on Storm Dancer so fast that water spilled down her dress. He stood only a few feet behind her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“What were you doing with Gall?”

“We were talking. And what business is it of yours?”

“You should stay near your father when he is here. Gall can be dangerous for a woman.”

She glared at him, refusing to be intimidated. “He said the same of you.”

Amusement twinkled in Storm Dancer’s eyes, as if he knew some secret, but wouldn’t explain it to her. That infuriated her. Was it some joke on her?

She clutched the dripping bucket to her chest, making it a solid barrier between them. “It was good of you to let me borrow your pony,” she said, “but you can take it back now. I don’t need him anymore.”

A muscle twitched at the corner of his thin lips…lips that had thrilled her only yesterday. “Why would I take your pony? He does not belong to me. He is yours.”

Had she forgotten how tall he was? How she had to tilt her head to look into his fierce black eyes? How broad his chest? His lean muscular body? He could break her in those strong hands…hands that had touched her so gently. She shivered, despite the warmth of the sunshine. “I don’t want him,” she lied. “He’s…he’s ill-mannered. And his gait is as rough as a mule’s.”

He shrugged. “Then eat him. He is fat.”

“That’s savage. We don’t eat horses.” Her voice sounded high and foolish in her ears. Thoughts tumbled in her head. She had to get away from him. If he didn’t let her pass, she’d shout for her father. He’d come and see that Storm Dancer was here. He would make him go away.

“Horse meat is very sweet.” Storm Dancer reached out and caught a lock of her hair. He rubbed it between his fingers. “So fine.”

She stepped back, yanking her hair free, splashing more water down the front of her dress. “Your cousin said that he knew this pony, that it belonged to a friend of his mother’s.”

“Yes, Corn Woman. I traded a bear for him.”

“You killed a bear?”

His eyes gleamed with amusement, but his words, when he answered, were solemn. “This is not the time for hunting bears. They are thin and sour in summer. When the snow flies, in the Trading Moon that you call November, I will track yona and bring him down. I will take the rich meat and the thick winter bearskin to Corn Woman. It is a good trade.”

“I don’t want you to kill a bear for me, and I don’t want your gifts. I want you to leave me alone.”

His expression hardened. “I would do that, but I cannot.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It is not a good thing, that we should come together. It means trouble.”

“Yes, exactly,” she agreed. “Not a good thing. So go away. Go, and don’t come back.”

She tried not to stare at him. Today, he wore a short open buckskin vest, fringed and decorated with porcupine quills, over a short leather kilt and high moccasins. Six inches of muscular chest gleamed bare between the fringed seams. She fought the urge to caress that copper skin, to move so close that her thighs would press against his naked ones.

He touched her face, lightly grazing her lips and chin with his long fingers. The bucket fell out of her grasp, splashing them both. Her senses reeled, and she shuddered, conscious only of her pounding heart, of the bright sensations running through her veins.

“Please…” she begged. “Don’t…”

His almond-shaped eyes pierced her. “I thought of you many times since you go away to the East.”

“I never thought of you,” she lied.

“You did,” he corrected. “Your spirit calls to mine. It always has.”

“No, that’s not possible.”

“When I first saw you as a woman grown, it was in teeth of a great storm.”

“At the cave.”

He nodded. “In the strike of lightning. It was a sign.”

“No, it wasn’t. I was chasing a cow and got lost. How can that be a sign?”

“Shan-nan!” Oona’s voice. “Shan-nan!”

“I have to go,” she said. “Please, let me go.”

“Then your spirit must cut the bond between us.” He stepped aside and she dashed down the path without looking back.

Oona waited at the bend in the trail. “Your father is asking for you,” she said. “Why did you not come?”

“Tell him that,” Shannon said, suddenly breathless. She pointed back along the path toward the spring. “He’s here. Storm—” She glanced around. He was gone. “He was there,” she insisted. “Storm Dancer was here.”

“I do not see him,” Oona said.

“No, he’s not here now. But he was. Don’t you believe me?”

“I think you play with fire, Shannon O’Shea.”

“What fire?”

The Indian woman’s sloe eyes narrowed. “Storm Dancer is not for you. Do not meddle with what you do not understand.”

“I’m not meddling. Don’t you understand? It’s him. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You did not bring the water. I need water for the house.” Oona brushed past her. “I will fetch it.”

Frustrated, Shannon stalked toward the cabin.

“He is a prince among the Cherokee,” Oona called after her. “A great one.”

“I don’t care,” Shannon flung back.

“And he is promised to another.”

“He’s nothing to me! Nothing.” But even as she shouted the words, she knew she was lying. And she knew because her stomach knotted and she could see that the sunlight had gone out of the morning, leaving all the brilliant greens and blues and browns of the forest muted and gray.