Читать книгу Cherokee Storm - Janelle Taylor - Страница 9

The sun was directly overhead when Shannon’s father stopped to rest on a fallen log. She was footsore and tired from climbing the mountain, but she would have rather bitten her tongue than admit it. She wanted to get home as quickly as possible, and she had no intention of telling him that the used shoes he’d purchased for her from Ada Baker were two sizes too big. Shannon had stuffed leaves in them, but the rough leather had rubbed blisters on her heels that stung with every step she took.

“I should have brought the horses,” he said. “You’re not used to so much walking. But the fastest way home is cross-country, rough for the horses—hard on their legs and hooves. I thought we’d make better time on foot.”

“I’m fine, Da, really.”

“Can ye not bring yourself to call me Flynn, as others do?”

“But you’re my father. It doesn’t seem respectful.”

“It’s been so long since we’ve been together. When you call me Da, I think of you as a child.” Moisture welled in his eyes. “You’re far from that, me girl. You’re a woman grown. Flynn will do fine.”

“If it pleases you.”

“It does. I’ve not been a proper father in years, but I’ll try to make up for it. I promise.”

“And I’ll try to be a good daughter.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. The sin, however deep, is my own.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Overhead a blue jay scolded a circling crow, and Shannon stared up at it. There were so many birds. When she was young, her father had taught her to identify them by their alarm calls and songs. Even now, tired and aching, the sweet music soothed her, and she strained to see glimpses of the different species in the foliage.

Her father…Flynn…offered her a biscuit and dried meat wrapped in corn husks. “It’s rabbit,” he explained. “Oona smokes and dries it, then pounds it to flour and mixes it with berries and bear fat. It’s a winter staple for the Cherokee.” He supplied the Cherokee word, but no matter how she tried, she couldn’t pronounce it correctly.

He chuckled. “It will come back to you. Cherokee is hard. Not so hard as Gaelic, but tough for adults to learn. You spoke both languages when you were a tot. In time you’ll remember.”

“Is it important? That I speak Cherokee?”

“If you want to be a help at the trading post. Not many of my customers will admit knowing English. Storm Dancer speaks it and French as well. His uncle sent him north to a mission school. But most Cherokee and Shawnee speak only their own tongue. Cherokee is a kind of poetry. Do you know how many ways they have to describe rain?”

She nodded. “I’ll do my best to learn, Da.”

His eyes narrowed. “Flynn.”

“All right. I’ll try to remember. I want you to be glad you brought me here. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“That could never be. My worry is that I’ve ruined your chances of a good marriage. There are few prospects for a white woman, even a beautiful one, in these wild mountains.”

“Fewer still back East for an indentured girl at a rough crossroads tavern. Most of the barmaids ended in disgrace with big bellies and no husband. Not that they were wicked, just lonely and unlucky.” Shannon nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully at memories of the indignities she’d had to endure during those years at Klank’s. “This is my home. With you. This is where I want to be, where I belong.”

Her father touched her cheek. “Put the bad times behind you, daughter. ’Tis my shame. It’s a man’s duty to protect his children.”

“It’s not your fault,” she protested. “You didn’t know—”

“I should have.” His eyes glistened with moisture. “It was selfish of me to bring your mother out here. I should have done better by her. Tried harder to please her.”

A lump rose in Shannon’s throat. “She shouldn’t have left you.”

“It’s just that I never fitted in back there. Never could hold a decent job. Seemed like walls were always closing in on me so that I couldn’t breathe. Out here…in these mountains…” He choked up and Shannon dug her grandmother’s handkerchief out of her pocket. He blew his nose and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “These mountains are the closest to heaven I’ll ever get.”

She squeezed his hand. She’d wanted to hug him, but she was suddenly shy. She couldn’t remember her father ever crying before. He’d always been strong and hearty, too tough to show emotion. Had the years changed him so much?

“We were never really matched. She came from gentry stock, fallen on hard times, and my own father was an outlaw hanged for stealing a pig.”

“Was he guilty?”

“Guilty as sin, but the pig saved us from starving. It was a bad time. Too much rain ruined the crops. We lost our farm and had to take to the road like tinkers.”

“How old were you?”

“Old enough to watch him hang. But Da said he wasn’t sorry. It was worth it.” Pain flickered in his gaze. “He was an unlucky man, but he had a good heart. I’d like to think that the Lord took pity on him, a sinner or not.”

“I’m sure He would.”

Her father nodded thoughtfully. “I hope so.”

“Hadn’t we better move on?” she suggested.

“Right you are. It will be easier traveling this afternoon. We go downhill, cross the river, and follow a pass through the mountains. If we don’t camp tonight, we can be home by midnight. If you’re up to it?” He forced a smile. “You’re certain you’re all right?”

“Right as rain,” she said. Hours of walking to go yet? She groaned inwardly. All she wanted to do was take off these shoes, curl up, and take a nap.

“The thing is, darlin’, all that rain. The river was fierce when I came through before. We can save half a day by using the crossing below. And if we walk down the mountain and find it too high to wade or too swift to swim, we’ve got to climb up again.”

Shannon exhaled softly. Retracing their steps was a dreadful prospect.

“What I’m thinking, is to leave you rest here, go down alone, and take a look-see.”

“Leave me alone?”

“You’ll be safe as a nun’s soul,” he promised. “See that clump of bushes there? You crawl in out of sight, quiet as a fawn laying low and waiting for its mama.”

She averted her eyes, not wanting him to see how afraid she was to be left behind. “Bears?” she ventured. “Mountain lions?”

Her father chuckled. “This time of year, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. You don’t want to walk up on a mama bear, understand? No sense of humor at all when they’ve got young ones. But you mind your business and old yona will do the same. As for the painters—mountain lions—they’re shy. Hate the scent of a human. I’d not leave you if I thought harm would come to you.”

She nodded. “All right.” The thought of a rest seemed better and better. If she took off her shoes, the blisters might not hurt so much when they had to go on. “I’ll wait here.”

He smiled. “That’s my brave girl.”

“You’re certain you’ll be able to find me again?”

Da’s smile became a wide grin. His teeth were still whole and white, the teeth of a much younger man. His smile hadn’t changed. “I know this country, darlin’,” he assured her. “I haven’t been lost in more than ten years. The devil and all his fiends couldn’t stop me from coming back for you.”

At first, she lay awake straining to hear every sound in the woods, every bird whistle, every chattering squirrel, every insect drone and buzz. She’d been so tired, but once Flynn’s erect figure had vanished through the trees, she hadn’t been able to hold back her distress.

Suppose that rustle of leaves was a poisonous snake? Weren’t there wolves in these mountains? Suppose her father fell and broke his leg and couldn’t get back? What would she do if she found herself truly alone?

Gradually, common sense took over. Weariness settled over her like a warm cloak. She unlaced the heavy shoes and pulled them off, sighing with relief. Hadn’t her father explained that she was perfectly safe? Didn’t he know this country as well as any white man? She would be reasonable and rest as he’d told her. And when he got back, she could continue on without complaining or slowing him down. Her eyelids were heavy. She yawned, laid her head on her arm, and drifted off.

The dream seized her and drew her down.

It was no longer daylight, but night. A canopy of glittering stars arched overhead. She could smell sweet spring grass and wild strawberries…. She could hear him murmuring her name as his strong hands stroked and caressed every inch of her body…as he cupped her breasts and teased her nipples to taut excitement.

She groaned, arching against his touch, reveling in the sweet sensations that flashed through her, igniting an incandescent heat between her thighs. His mouth lingered on hers. He tasted of ripe strawberries.

She inhaled deeply, seeking more, wanting more, wanting all of him. She tossed her head, hunting for him, needing him, not wanting the throbbing waves of pure joy to stop.

But they did stop. Abruptly, she could no longer feel his touch.

With a small cry, she opened her eyes. Where was he? Where was her secret lover? Where were the stars and the velvet bowl of night sky? Bright rays of sunlight pierced her hiding spot. She gasped and squinted against the glare. Stunned, she withdrew her hand…fingertips moist from her own inner folds.

No phantom lover…she’d been touching herself…pleasuring herself. Her own fingers had stirred the sexual yearning in her body. Hesitantly, she reached down to rub her swollen flesh. She should have felt shame, but the urge was overpowering.

How many times had she found release in the dark of the night by such action? Better to fulfill her woman’s need quietly under the covers in her own bed than to be a man’s plaything. If there was sin, she would pay for it. But surely, such a thing was only a small sin.

Tentatively, she stroked the moist button deep inside her woman’s folds. It felt so good…so good. But she needed more. She had never known a man, but she could imagine what the act between a man and a woman might be like. Imagined it well, she had to admit to herself, if she was honest. How else could she conceive of the feelings a man might evoke…and not just any man.

Storm Dancer.

Impossible. Her pulse quickened. Her breaths came faster. She gritted her teeth, imagining his hands on her, his voice whispering in her ear, letting her fantasies run wild. And all the while, she continued to massage and stroke her inner flesh until she was rewarded by small spasms of pleasure that spread outward through her body and seemed to resonate through her bones.

She sighed, letting her eyes drift closed in contentment.

“Mary Shan-non, what would your mother say?”

Her eyes snapped open and she cried out. He was here, not a dream lover, but flesh and blood. Shannon clapped her hand over her mouth as Storm Dancer’s face and form materialized out of the surrounding foliage.

He was there! Within arm’s reach. Spying on her—watching as she…

She scrambled out of her bed of leaves so fast that she tripped and fell headlong into his arms. “You!” she cried. “Why—”

Storm Dancer stood her upright, stepped away, threw back his head, and laughed and laughed until she felt her face grow hot and she smacked him hard in the chest with a balled fist.

“How could you?” she shouted.

Tears of laughter rolled from his eyes and streaked his cheeks.

“Stop it. Stop laughing at me.”

“Such games are for girls,” he managed, between roars of laughter. “Women need more.”

Shame dissolved before anger, and she looked frantically for something to hit him with. All she could find was a pinecone. She threw that as hard as she could. It bounced off his forehead, and he laughed harder. She rushed at him, pounding him with both fists.

He caught her and brought his mouth down to hers. For the briefest instant, it seemed that lightning flashed between them as he moistened her lower lip with his tongue and nibbled it gently. She trembled as he lowered his head and nuzzled her neck.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart crashed against her ribs. Her hands fisted and opened, tightened and opened helplessly. And, somehow, without knowing how or why, she was touching him, running her fingers over satin smooth copper skin, reveling in the heat and hard, rippling muscles.

Time stopped. Black spots danced behind her eyelids. She drew in a great gulp of air, and reason flooded her. What was she doing? How had a dream become real?

“Let me go. Please,” she begged.

“Mary Shannon.”

Her name on his lips turned her bones to butter. “No, this is wrong,” she protested. “I can’t…You can’t…”

He let her go and stepped back. She stumbled and almost lost her balance. She looked into his eyes…his beautiful dark eyes, and almost plunged into damnation. She could fall into the depths of those eyes…fall and fall forever.

“No,” she repeated stiffly. “My father—”

His bronze chest rose and fell as he drew in air. “Truth Teller should never have left you alone,” he said stiffly. “This is no place for a woman alone. Not a Cherokee woman…not a white woman.”

She backed away, putting distance between them. She fought against the urge to fling herself back into that strong embrace, to catch that red-gold skin between her teeth and taste the salt that must glisten there. She tried to ignore the tingle of her nipples, the sensation that her breasts were swollen and tender, the feeling that she was more alive at this moment than ever in her life. She fought lust as she had never fought it before.

“He will be back,” she said. “Da…my father. If he finds you here—”

“He will be glad that it is me and not another.” Again, Storm Dancer’s deep, soft voice sent shivers down her spine.

“Why are you here? Why did you follow us?” she demanded. She wasn’t afraid of him. What had happened between them was wrong, but it was as much her fault as his. She had to make sense of this. She had to make what was wrong right.

She wondered if this was the dream…if she would awaken under the Clarks’ wagon or in her own bed in the attic of the tavern.

“I brought you a pony,” he said. His smooth features hardened. His eyes darkened and he was suddenly a stoic savage again. “You are not used to walking so far. The river is too high to cross. You should ride.”

“A pony?” she echoed. “You brought me a pony?” She stared at him in utter bewilderment, wondering if she’d heard correctly. “Another stolen horse?” she said, regretting the accusation the instant the words rolled off her tongue.

He scowled. “Tell your father not to be careless. There are Shawnee in these mountains. Tell him that it may not be a place that he can live anymore.” Storm Dancer turned and walked into the forest.

She stared after him. Was he a ghost? One minute he was there—the next, he was gone. She realized that she was standing in bare feet and looked around for her shoes. They were no longer in the leaves where she’d left them. In their place was a pair of butter-soft woman’s moccasins with a design of wild strawberries stitched into the leather. She laced them up and took a few tentative steps.

Why had Storm Dancer followed them if he meant them no harm? Why had he taken her shoes and replaced them with—

The snap of a twig jerked her from her reverie. She heard a snort and the branches parted. A brown pony with a large head, one blue eye and one brown eye stepped into the clearing. The animal’s legs were short and thick, the hindquarters solid and heavily muscled. Except for the size—just under thirteen hands—she guessed, the pony appeared much like a draft horse.

“Storm Dancer? Where are you?”

No answer.

The pony snatched a mouthful of grass. It wore no bridle. Instead, a braided leather rope encircled the animal’s nose and looped loosely over the neck. Red and blue beads were woven into the heavy mane.

“Storm Dancer,” she called again. “Where did you get him? I don’t want a stolen pony. I won’t ride it. I’ll leave it here for the wolves to eat.”

The pony raised his head and stared at her through thick lashes. She put out a hand to it. “I don’t want you,” she said. “This is ridiculous. I can’t accept—”

“Who are you talking to?” Her father moved into the clearing and glanced around. “Where did he come from?”

Shannon noticed that Da was breathing hard and his face was red. Small gray lines tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were heavy with fatigue. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He set the butt of his long rifle on the ground and leaned on the barrel. The pony looked at him and swished his tail. “How did you come by this beast, darlin’?”

She told him. Not everything, not everything by half, but enough. “I told him I didn’t want it. It’s probably stolen, isn’t it? And why is he following us?”

Her father shook his head. “Hard to say. Storm Dancer’s a Cherokee. Long as I’ve known them, ate with them, wintered with them, I don’t know them. They aren’t like whites. Might as well be a different breed of animal. Not less than a white man, you understand, but different—blood and bone different.” He paused. “I’ve seen a Cherokee, Listens to Thunder, by name, decide to die. Why, I can’t tell you…some point of honor, I couldn’t make head nor tail of.”

“Was he an old man?”

“Nope, no older than you and hale and hearty as a spring calf. Listens to Thunder just sits down, wraps himself in a blanket, and starts to sing his death song. He was cold as a landlord’s heart by morning. Just willed his-self to die.”

“That’s crazy,” she said.

“No, that’s a Cherokee. No telling why Storm Dancer brought this animal for you, but it would be an insult to refuse his gift. You’ll be glad enough to ride by the time we reach the post.”

She shook her head. “I’m not a good rider. I haven’t ridden since I went East.”

“Comes right back to you. You’ll see, darlin’. Bad news is, the river’s up. I was afraid it might be. No crossing here, not for a week. And we need to get home.”

“But if the pony is stolen…”

“Not likely. Not when he gave it to you. He wouldn’t be above lifting a horse or two from an enemy. That’s part of their code. But this is a mountain pony, Cherokee bred, most likely. See those short legs. Tough and strong little animals. Too small for most men to ride, but just right for you.”

“I walked from Virginia,” she said stubbornly. “I can walk home.”

“It’s not safe to leave Oona or the post alone too long. We’ll go a lot faster if you just do as I say.”

“Storm Dancer wanted me to give you a message. He said there might be Shawnee in the area.”

Apprehension clouded her father’s eyes. “Then we’d best make tracks.” He glanced down at the moccasins on her feet. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was courting you, girl. You’d best take care not to lead him on. No telling what—”

“I’ve not led him on.” It was unfair. She’d told Storm Dancer…Guilt rose in her chest, and she nodded. “I wouldn’t,” she said. “I know better.”

“Enough said.” Da shouldered his pack. “Hop on, darlin’. And don’t fear this pony will lose his footing and tumble off the mountain. They’re more cat than horse. He’ll carry you safely home.”

Home. She’d been traveling so long to get there. Would it be as wonderful as she remembered? “Is she there? Oona?”

“She is.”

“Will she resent me?”

“Oona?” He smiled. “Not her. A better heart never beat in a woman. You’ll see. She’ll be a second mother to you. And you’ll be a help to her.” He ducked his head, then flushed as he raised his gaze to meet hers. “She’s wanted a child of her own for years. And now, God willing, our prayers will be answered.”

Shannon looked at him in confusion. “You mean…”

“I do, darlin’. She’s with child. You’re going to have a new baby brother or sister. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Reserved and stone-faced, the Indian woman turned her back on Shannon and stooped to turn the flat corn cakes baking on an upturned iron skillet in the fireplace. Embarrassed, Shannon glanced around the snug cabin and then back to her father. He hadn’t seemed to notice the frost in the air when he’d introduced Oona to his only daughter. And he hadn’t mentioned that one side of his companion’s face was horribly scarred.

Oona was younger than Shannon had expected, perhaps thirty. It was difficult for her to tell the age of Indians. Oona’s hair fell to her waist, black, and thick, and glossy. She would have been a beauty if it wasn’t for the disfigurement. Shannon wondered how she had gotten the terrible injury.

“What do you think of my Mary Shannon? Is she as pretty as moonlight on the river?” her father asked the Indian woman.

Oona’s spine stiffened. She dipped hot liquid from a kettle suspended over the coals and brought him a steaming pewter mug of something that Shannon couldn’t identify. It smelled of herbs with an underlying hint of willow bark.

Da settled into a leather-and-wood high-backed chair by the fireplace. “You can see I’ve added on since you last were here,” he said. “Three rooms and the loft now. Oona and I sleep through there in the end room with the second fireplace. When I found out that you were coming home, I built another room just for you. It’s smaller than ours, but snug. You’ll be warm in winter.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. A bedroom of her own was a luxury she’d never imagined. When she was tiny, she’d slept in her parents’ bed, tucked securely between them, and when she was older, Da had traded for a bearskin, and her mother had made a thick pallet for her on the floor between the big bed and the wall.

At the children’s home, she’d slept under the eaves with dozens of other orphans, and they’d called her a liar when she’d boasted of sleeping on a bearskin at home. Later, when she went into service, there were always three or four girls sharing two lumpy beds in the attic chamber at the tavern. Hot in summer and freezing at winter—she’d never known anything else since her mother had taken her away.

And now, at last, she was home again. It didn’t seem real, after so many years of dreaming about this place. But now that she was here, nothing was as she’d expected. Salty tears scalded the backs of her eyelids but she refused to let them fall. She stood there, stiff and doll-like, bone-tired in a dirt-stained dress and Indian moccasins, while her world slowly cracked and dissolved around her.

Da was growing old, and he had a new wife. Not even a wife, Shannon reminded herself. He was living out of wedlock with Oona. And as shocking as that realization had been, his woman wasn’t Irish as Shannon had assumed by her Irish name. She was Indian, dark-skinned, and foreign. Worse, it was clear to Shannon by the expression in her flashing black eyes that Oona didn’t want her here.

This strange woman had a life with Flynn O’Shea that didn’t include a long-lost daughter by a first wife. Da and Oona were expecting a child. How could her father think they could all live together as though they were a family?

Had she come so far to find she was still an unwanted outsider?