Читать книгу Beyond the Cherokee Trail - Lisa Carter - Страница 15

Chapter 6

6

Mid-January 1838

Miss Hopkins! Slow down, I beg you.”

Sarah Jane swiveled in the saddle. She peered over her shoulder at Pierce who clutched his hat atop his head with one hand and held the reins in a death grip with the other.

Clicking her tongue against her teeth, she eased the mare to a gentler pace, allowing Pierce time to catch up. “Papa said to hurry. The children seemed sure their mother was in a desperate way.”

He blew out a breath, which hung like fog in the crisp winter air. “Most improper it is, I fear, Miss Hopkins, for us to be out riding unchaperoned.” He fell in alongside Sarah.

She leaned over and plucked an errant pine needle from the curls at his ear. “Things are different here, Pierce. It’s not New England. Same rules don’t apply. We do what we have to do. And Papa already had his hands full with Mrs. Corn Tassel’s baby on the way, too.”

At the word, “baby,” he flushed as scarlet as the cardinal cheer-cheer-ing over their heads on a branch of a tulip poplar. “Again, Miss Hopkins, most irregular and inappropriate for a young lady such as yourself . . .”

He swallowed. “A maiden lady to witness, much less participate—” The red patches on his windblown cheeks deepened.

She tried not to laugh as he realized his own unfortunate choice of words.

He floundered. “I mean, assist in such a delicate matter as—”

“Cows and horses.”

She dug her heels into the mare’s side and motioned him to follow.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Hopkins?”

One look at his dear, befuddled face, and she surrendered to the impulse to laugh this time. “In these parts, my papa’s often called upon to tend livestock as well.”

“But-but he’s a medical practitioner. Of humans.”

She rocked in rhythm with her horse, glad she’d worn her serviceable if ratty jacket over her striped, wool homespun on this brisk ride into the hills. “He does whatever it takes to get his foot in the cabin door. If he manages to bring their only source of milk unscathed through the birthing process—”

His eyebrows ascended almost to his hairline. “Miss Hopkins.”

“The Cherokee will often bestow a measure of trust on him the next time one of their family members needs medical attention.”

“But to involve his own daughter . . .”

She gave him a sidelong glance. His concern for her sensibilities was real, if unwarranted. “Things are different here,” she reiterated for the thousandth time. “Society’s rules don’t apply. We do what we must. The women feel more comfortable with me present. And Papa needs my help since Mam died.”

Reaching over the gap between their two horses as they picked their way across the mountain meadow, she took his hand in her gloved one. He appeared startled at first, but he wove his fingers into hers.

A shiver of something delicious warmed her.

He squeezed her hand. “I’m just concerned for your well-being, Sarah Jane.” His earnest blue eyes stared into hers.

A gaze, she reckoned, in which she could lose herself forever. Like in the expanse of a blue sky.

She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. “It’ll be all right, Pierce. Like the apostle instructed, we must try to be all we can to all the people we can while we have the opportunity.”

He favored her with a sweet smile. “Your faith and courage shame me at times, Sarah Jane Hopkins. I fear I have more to learn than I realized, and not only Cherokee words or herbs.”

A beam of light from high over the forest haloed the manes of their horses. Kind of like how her heart felt, full of light these past weeks. Sighing, she noticed he hadn’t let go of her hand as their mounts plodded side-by-side down the well-beaten hunting trail.

“The Cherokee believe they have a great responsibility to the earth and to each other. They’re committed to caring for their elders as well as their youth. They’re actually quite humorous—”

He snorted at that, his horse whuffling in response.

“No, really. I’ll grant you, it’s a dry humor. But they often employ it to diffuse a potential conflict with each other and to preserve harmony.”

“You talk of pagan people with such admiration, Miss Hopkins.”

“They possess many admirable qualities, Pierce. Not the least of which is how they regard each day as a gift unto itself.”

“And the converts in the services.” He shook his head as if to erase inner doubts. “It’s so foreign to how we worship.”

“They love the songs. And when they speak, they speak long in prayer.” She shrugged. “Not so different from us.”

His brow creased. “But the dances, Sarah Jane?”

“They dance to honor the Creator. Not our way, but flowing out of as sincere a heart toward God as any believer you’ll ever meet, I promise you.”

Fear he’d always feel out of place lanced her insides. Fear niggled that one day he’d pack up and leave the mountains, the Cherokee. And her.

“I’ll be right there with you, Pierce. I’ll help you any way I can. Oh,” She reluctantly extracted her hand from his. “Looks as if we’ve arrived.”

She swept aside an evergreen branch to reveal the crude, little cabin nestled in the mountain hollow up and over the creek from her father’s surgery. Smoke billowed from the stone chimney over the top of the wood shake roof. Chickens squawked and pecked at the frozen ground. At the clip-clop sound of the horses, two children, who summoned her papa this morning at the break of dawn, scampered around the corner of the house.

Low moans issued from the interior.

He threw her a sardonic look. “From the sounds of it, Miss Hopkins, I’d say so.”

A man, she’d seen him once at the Mercantile, emerged onto the sagging wooden porch. A Mr. Kingfisher Jameson. He twisted a cloth in his hands.

She held up her hand and called a traditional Cherokee greeting. “Osiyo! Hallo to the house.”

At the porch railing, Sarah Jane dismounted. She heaved off her saddlebag, bulging with items she might need during this medical emergency. Pierce joined her on the porch beside Mr. Jameson. The children grabbed the horses’ reins and led them to the barn.

“Oh-say-oh,” Pierce intoned.

Mr. Jameson flicked a glance her way and motioned them within.

“Well done,” she mouthed. Pierce flushed with pleasure at her approval.

Say what you would about Pierce and his big city ways, but when he committed himself to a venture—like learning the difficult Cherokee—he committed all the way.

Hanks of spun cotton hung from the rafters inside the log home. A spinning wheel and loom rested upon a packed, dirt floor. The fireplace of wood and clay dominated another wall. Mr. Jameson, speaking a broken mixture of English and Cherokee, communicated his wife had never suffered through childbirth like this before, and he’d grown tired of the potions of the shaman, which made his wife retch and did little to alleviate her pain.

Sarah noted with pride she only had to interpret for Pierce in

two instances during Pierce’s examination of the bedrid-

den woman. And per Papa’s precise protocol, Pierce directed the children, hovering in the doorway, to fetch a basin of water for his hands before he began the exam.

“Breech.” Pierce searched Sarah’s face. “You and Mr. Jameson,” who listened closer at the sound of his name, “are going to have to hold her down while I turn the baby. No pushing . . .” He admonished the woman whose uncomprehending, terrified eyes met his.

“Uh, Sarah. Maybe we better concentrate on Cherokee medical words from now on.”

She nodded and gave Pierce a small, reassuring smile. “Right. Pushing.” She grasped the woman’s arm and gestured for Mr. Jameson to do the same on the other side of the corn-stuffed mattress.

“No pushing,” she commanded the woman in Cherokee. “Not till Doctor say yes.”

Pierce’s forehead glistened with beads of sweat. “A prayer might be in order, if you please, Miss Hopkins.”

“Our Father, Heaven’s Dweller—O-gi-do-da ga-lv-la-di he-hi,” she began.

With a muttered apology for the discomfort he was about to inflict, he bent to the task.

The woman moaned.

“Ga-lv-quo-di-yu ge-se-s-di de-tsa-do-v-i” Sarah Jane recited. “My loving will be to Thy name.”

Writhing, the woman struggled against the restraining bonds of Sarah and her husband’s hands.

“Tsa-gv-wi-yu-hi ge-sv wi-ga-na-nu-go-i—”

Pierce clenched his teeth together. “Thy Kingdom come, I’m guessing, Sarah Jane? Almost . . .”

She studied Jameson as blood flowed from between his wife’s bent knees at the foot of the cot. His tanned face resembled the color of chalk in a schoolroom. Would he pass out?

“A-ni e-tsa-hi wi-ni-ga-li-s-da ha-do-nv-tse-s-gv-i. Here upon earth let happen what You think.”

The man wobbled.

“Deep breaths in and out,” she advised.

A wrenching cry from the woman.

Pierce looked up, his eyes shining. “It’s done. We—God—did it.” Rivulets of perspiration and blood stained the front of his white, starched shirt.

“Na-s-gi-ya ga-lv-la-di tsi-ni-ga-li-s-di-ha,” she exhaled. “The same as in heaven is done. God be praised.”

The woman slumped in momentary relief. Sarah Jane reclined her against the flat pillow.

Mr. Jameson gripped his wife’s hand. “Baby?” he murmured. “Usdi?”

Sarah handed Pierce a clean cloth.

Pierce straightened and wiped his hands. He clamped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Oos-dee. Baby soon.”

The man huddled over his wife with words of encouragement.

Sarah Jane moved to a side table to fill a tin cup with water for the patient. “He must love her a great deal.” Returning, she filled another and handed it to Pierce.

“Why’s that?” He gulped the liquid.

“Cherokee men consider it beneath their dignity to attend the births of their children.”

Pierce smoothed a tangled strand of hair from her face. “Love? Or just scared to death like me?” He gifted her with a wry, one-sided smile.

Her skin burned from the feel of his hand, strong and warm. “You did fine. As I knew you would.”

Pierce took another long swig of water. “We’re not done yet, Sarah Jane. We’ve only begun, in fact.”

She darted a look to make sure the patient still rested comfortably.

Pierce downed the rest of the water in a single swallow, tossing back his head. A thrill of sheer pleasure at the sight of his tight, yellow curls shot through Sarah.

Thrusting the cup into her hands, he winked. “But we do make a right fine team, don’t you think?”

She grinned, feeling the closest she’d ever come to being as pretty as one of the red lilies that grew on the mountain. “Mighty fine indeed, Doctor.”

And three hours later, all was truly fine as the patient delivered without further complication her third son into the Cherokee Nation.

It was late afternoon by the time they approached the Hopkins dwelling and surgery located down the road from the mission meetinghouse.

“Papa may still be at the Corn Tassel’s. I’ll fix us a quick, if cold, supper.”

He eyed the jouncing chicken he’d tied to his saddle-pack. “Just so long as you promise tomorrow you’ll redeem Mr. Jameson’s payment for our house call with some fried chicken . . .” He smacked his lips together. “Some potatoes . . .”

A swirl of anticipation melted her insides. “Is that all you’re wanting?”

Lord-a mercy, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

What had come over her suddenly bold tongue? That sounded like something Leila Hummingbird would say.

But Pierce, for all his proper poses, apparently thought nothing untoward about it. “Well, now you mention it, some cobbler—apple from your orchard—would hit the spot right nice.”

She laughed. The clipped, nasal Yankee speech of his was slowly but surely giving way to a gentler drawl. “You stay here long enough, and we’ll have you sounding like a real Snowbird Mountain boy.”

Her high, good humor plummeted once she sighted who awaited them on a bench beneath the redbud tree. Sarah’s lips tightened.

Leila, in a red velvet overcoat, sprang to her feet. In a matching bonnet trimmed with a sprig of holly berries, Leila waved a small lace handkerchief in their direction.

As if anyone with eyes in their head could avoid seeing Leila Hummingbird decked out in her plumage.

Sarah Jane felt, as well as heard, Pierce’s short explosive breath when he caught sight of the exquisite Cherokee maiden. His boots hit the hard-packed earth with a thud. She swung her leg over the horse’s back and allowed herself to slide slowly toward the ground.

His hat clasped against his chest, he advanced across the lawn. Leila met him halfway, skirts rustling. Her big eyes beckoned and perused the young doctor. Sarah Jane did a halting stutter step until she reached Pierce’s side. She crossed her arms over her worn overcoat.

Leila twisted her face toward Sarah, her features sharp as a vulture. Her dark eyes glinted at Sarah and slid away to Pierce. “Why, Sarah Jane, how dare you keep this handsome young man to yourself?”

She’d tried to avoid this moment for weeks.

Leila fluttered the handkerchief in the scant space between her body and his. A whiff of the expensive musky scent Leila’s father shipped from Charleston permeated the air.

Sarah Jane cut her eyes at Pierce. His eyes transfixed, he breathed in and out with rapid, shallow breaths.

Her heart began an undulating, death spiral to the region of her toes.

“Well,” Leila stamped her foot. Prettily, of course. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” She leaned toward him, swaying willowlike in the wind.

Pierce quivered like the string on a tightly strung bow.

Leila brushed her shoulder against his black suit coat. “Or, will I be forced to fling convention to the side and perform the introductions myself?”

As Leila lifted her hand, Pierce pressed his lips against her fingers.

Leila cast a predatory gleam of triumph at Sarah Jane. Sarah’s fists curled into a ball as a sick feeling welled.

And Sarah Jane—this afternoon a one-time lily—faded to drab Sarah once again.