Cherokee Storm (18 page)

“If the bad thing happens, I will go where you go.”

“Damned if you will, woman. By all that's holy, if trouble comes, you look out for our coming babe. You hear me?” The dogs were snarling and throwing themselves at the palisade wall.

Flynn forced himself to turn back toward the commotion. Lifting one leg after another, running, breathing heavy, but running. A mountain lion, he told himself. Maybe a woods' buffalo. An old bull, rank and musty, horns scarred from age and combat.

In his heart, he knew he was whistling in the dark. In his heart, he knew what was waiting beyond the log fence. And he wasn't surprised when he heard the first screech of Shawnee war whoops and saw the rain of flaming arrows arc through the gathering twilight.

 

Shannon was glad to see the last of Drake's family and neighbors…her family and neighbors, she realized with a start. She was no longer Shannon O'Shea, Flynn's daughter, but Shannon Clark, Hannah and Nathan's daughter-in-law. Mrs. Drake Clark. It sounded strange, but maybe she would accustom herself to it in time.

Drake hung his rifle over the hearth. It was a small, neat cabin, one room only, but the floors were plank, the log walls tightly packed to keep out rain and snow. There was a crude table and two benches, a stone fireplace with an iron bar to hang kettles, and a wide hearth to prevent sparks from igniting the floorboards.

“What do you think of the house?” Drake asked. He was pleased, both with being back on his farm and the gifts of food and blankets the settlement had provided. His mother had given them a butter churn, and Nathan promised a pair of piglets as soon as his speckled sow far-rowed. “It's not big, but once the young'ns start comin', we can build on.”

“It's a fine house,” she agreed.

She was tired from the long day, first the brief marriage ceremony, which seemed like no wedding at all to her, and later from the packing and walk back from the fort to the valley. She could have ridden, but she had Betty to lead, and most of the women and children were on foot. It would have seemed presumptuous to ride when older women walked. Instead, she'd put two small children on her pony's back and trudged along through the mud with the others.

There was no wedding ring on her hand. Drake had promised one when he sold his first horses to the soldiers at Fort Hood and a ring could be ordered from Virginia. She'd had no bridal dress, no wedding feast, and no celebration. Her marriage had been a hasty one, practical, and fitting to her new station in life—wife of a farmer. She tried to tell herself how lucky she was, how much more this was than she had ever expected when she was scrubbing floors at Klank's tavern. So why didn't she feel joy? And why wasn't she looking forward to her wedding night?

“You hungry?” Drake took a jug from the mantel, un-corked it, and took a long swallow.

“No, thank you.” She tried not to look at the wide pallet in one corner. There was no bed yet, just a grass-stuffed mattress and two feed sack pillows.

Tonight, she would allow Drake to take his husbandly privileges. He would touch and fondle her and pump himself between her legs until his passion was sated. She wondered if she would feel anything but embarrassment and discomfort. If she could allow Drake his rightful mating without feeling anything herself, it would be less painful. But experiencing the same thrill tonight that Storm Dancer had given her would be too terrible to endure.

“Come over here, woman, and pull these off for me.” Drake dragged a bench over to the hearth, sat down, and thrust out one muddy boot. “The leather's soaked through.” He took another sip of the spirits in the jug and put the cork back in.

She came without protest. If she was going to be a dutiful wife, she needed to learn to obey orders from her husband without putting up a fuss. Drake slapped her playfully on the behind, and she tried not to show her distaste for his touch as she took hold of the sodden boot.

Laughing, Drake caught her between his legs and pulled her in to him. He pawed her breasts and fisted a hand in her hair. When she opened her mouth to protest, he kissed her, deep and searing. The taste of raw whiskey burned her mouth.

“Shy, ain't ye?” he teased. “No need to be. Not with me. I reckon we'll set that bed on fire in a little while.” He stroked the rising tumescence at his crotch.

Shannon brushed her mouth where he'd bruised it with his kiss. He'd kissed her so hard that her lip had split. It hurt, but not nearly as much as the thought that she wasn't ready for what was to come between them.

It was almost funny. She was as jumpy as a virgin. Moths tumbled in the pit of her stomach, and her mouth was as dry as cattail fluff. This was Drake. He wasn't a stranger. She'd known him for months, and now he was her lawful husband. She'd never been a foolish chit to squeal and take fright at whatever life handed her. She was still Shannon, and she'd made the choice to marry this good man with her eyes wide open. She'd fulfill her part of the bargain, no matter what.

Drake gave her a little shove and raised his foot again. She pulled, but the boot didn't give. “Damn it, girl. Put some muscle in it.”

She yanked harder and the boot came off with a sucking noise. Instantly, a wave of nausea rose in her throat as a rotten stench filled her nostrils. The sock under the boot was filthy and full of holes.

“When did you last wash your feet?” She flung the nasty boot on the hearth and stripped off the sock. Drake's foot was hardly any cleaner. His toenails were so long and nasty they resembled untrimmed sheep's hooves.

“Smells some, don't it? Last fight we had with the Shawnee, I was wading in blood ankle deep. Guess I could take a little lye soap and water to these puppies before we jump between Ma's sheets.”

Swallowing her distaste, she reached for the other boot. This one was even harder to get off, but when it did come free, she'd tumbled backward onto the floor with her unwelcome cargo.

Drake guffawed as she slung the second boot into the cold fireplace. “Careful there,” he said. “You'll damage my trophies.”

As she picked herself up off the floor, she glanced into the fireplace to see what he was talking about. It appeared to be a string of mangy animal hides, ragged and black in color, suspended from a hook set into the mortar.

“Hung 'm in there to smoke,” he said. “Smoke cures'm fast. Do you have any idea how much money they'll bring back in Virginia?”

“Cures what? What are you talking about?” She stared at the pelts in disbelief. Then realization set in. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she uttered a low cry.

It wasn't animal pelts, but human scalps. Scalps dangled from the charred rope. And one trophy bore the unmistakable remains of woodpecker feathers tangled in the bloodstained hair.

The fire beside the great game trail that led north to the Ohio River had burned low. The Cherokee delegation to the meeting with the French and the Shawnee had traveled far and fast. A day earlier, they had left their horses in a secluded valley, under the care of two teenage boys eager to prove their worth, and traveled on foot due to the rough country.

If Storm Dancer had believed that his father and uncle were showing the signs of age, he soon learned differently. Winter Fox and Flint often took the lead, their moccasin-clad feet flying down the twisting path at a dead run with barely stops for water or rest.

The group from Storm Dancer's village had joined with those of Three Spears Camp, Old Woman Mountain, and Split Cane's village. Three of the representatives were female, all council members. Firefly had considered becoming part of the expedition, but the clan mothers had decided that with the threat of war imminent, she was needed more at home. Storm Dancer was one of five young men entrusted with the security of the
Tsalagi
delegation. All were notable warriors, chosen for bravery and skill at arms.

Twenty-one had set out for the parley at Big Pascal's trading post, and now that the boys had been left behind to protect the horses, there were nineteen, a formidable unit, despite the danger. Today had been an especially tough day of travel because of the constant rain. Even Storm Dancer's muscles felt the strain of the hours of running over rough ground.

Most of the party had been reluctant to linger talking around the fire, but had rolled in blankets soon after they'd broken their fast. Another day's journey would take them into enemy territory. After tomorrow, they would travel only by night and double the watch.

Tonight, Storm Dancer and a brave from Split Cane's village had taken the second shift of guard duty. They circled the camp at a distance of several hundred yards, watching and listening, a difficult task because of the wind gusts and continuing rain. The trees here were young, the underbrush thick, and it was hard to move from place to place without becoming entangled in thickets. After two circuits, Storm Dancer climbed a beech tree and settled back in a crotch of branches.

As long as he kept moving, he could keep Shannon from his mind, but the pain of losing her was too fresh to recede for long. A night like this should be spent in a man's lodge, his woman in his arms. He remembered the night they had shared in the cave together, how desirable she had been, and how much he'd wanted to leap over the fire and make love to her. If he let himself linger on her memory, he could feel her soft pale skin against his, remember the taste of her mouth and the tiny moans she made, deep in her throat, when he entered her.

Thinking about Shannon was agony. Now, of all times, he needed a clear head. But her spell was powerful. She had tossed him away for another, but she had not broken the bonds that drew him to her. Would he ever be free of wanting her…of listening for her laughter?

A great horned owl swooped overhead, and a rabbit shrieked. Storm Dancer came instantly alert. Motionless, he peered through the rain and strained to hear footsteps in the trees as great drops of water struck his face and ran down through his hair and over his throat.

He heard the first night hawk cry shortly after the spirit owl had warned him. He waited. A second false bird called from the left, closer to the river, along the route of a smaller deer trail—a track so narrow and twisting that a careless eye would miss it. Storm Dancer smiled into the night.

A snap of twigs under the trees drew his attention to the silhouette of a white man in a tricorn hat. As he passed by, Storm Dancer could see the dull gleam of shiny buttons on his coat. He knew the stranger was no Indian by the way he walked, even before the unmistakable odor of wet wool and French soap wafted up to his nostrils.

Like a cat, Storm Dancer sprang from the branch. He landed light as a puma, one arm around the Frenchman's throat, one knee in the small of the man's back. He didn't need his knife. The man's neck snapped like kindling. He gave one startled gasp and crumbled face-down into the wet briars.

Storm Dancer paused long enough to snatch the heavy silver gorget from the dead man's neck. He was no thief, but the insignia might identify his enemy later. Only a high-ranking French soldier would wear such an adornment. His mother would want to see it.

As he rose from a crouched position, he heard the first shots at the campsite. War cries followed, and immediately after, the screams of the injured and dying. Storm Dancer yanked his tomahawk from his belt and plunged forward through the underbrush toward the battle.

 

Shannon shrank back from the gruesome trophies hanging in the fireplace, and whirled on Drake. “Where did you get those? Do you know what they are?”

His mouth gaped open like a dying fish, and he stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. “They're scalps. I told ye, a dealer back East will pay me—”

“Who did you buy them from?”

“Buy'm, hell,” he sputtered. His face reddened as he rose to his feet. “I took'm fair and square. Shot and skinned them myself.”

She clamped a hand over her mouth, certain she was going to be sick. The little scalp with the feathers could only belong to a child, one child in particular, the adorable little boy she'd met at Split Cane's camp. “You were there? You killed children?”

“Nits make lice.”

“Murderer!” She grabbed up the nearest thing within reach, the filthy boot she'd just flung down, and threw it at Drake. It struck him full in the chest, splattering mud over his face and into his mouth and nose.

Drake cursed and lunged at her, but she snatched up a two-foot length of firewood and bounced it off his head. He howled and grabbed his bleeding temple, and she darted across the room and seized his skinning knife from the table where he'd dropped it.

“Get out!”

“Are you crazy, bitch? I'm not getting out of my own house!” He lunged at her. Shannon stood her ground and slashed at him with the knife.

“Get out before I cut your pizzle off!” She held the weapon low, the way her father had taught her. She was half his size, but she'd been butchering game animals since she was eight years old.

He hesitated, plainly trying to work up his nerve to disarm her. “You're my wife, damn it! You can't pull a knife on me! I'll beat the crap out of you!”

“Try it and you'll be singing soprano in church choir!” A nasty scum rose in her throat and she gagged. “I'll never live with a murderer…a monster.”

“Get a hold of yerself, you lunatic woman.” His bluster became a coward's whine. “Only two of them scalps is kids. One was full-grown buck. Come at me with a war club. I'm lucky I even survived.”

She took a step forward, still holding the knife, ready to strike. “What were you doing there? I heard the killers were from Virginia. How did you—”

“They come through Green Valley lookin' fer volunteers.”

“And you went? What kind of man are you?”

“Yer hysterical. Injun lover, just like yer pa. Can't you see? It's the only way. This country won't be fit for Godfearin' folk until we rid these mountains of them savages.”

“You're a fool, Drake. You've put every man, woman, and child in this valley in danger. If Split Cane's people knew you were part of that raiding party, they'd wipe out this settlement.”

“And who's gonna tell?” he demanded. “Not you. Not my lovin' wife, crazy as a Virginia politician!”

He tried to grab her, and she slashed the blade across the back of his palm. Blood welled up. “Now you done it!” he roared. “Now I'm gonna—”

Whatever Drake intended to threaten was lost in the crash of the cabin door. Damon burst in. “What the hell?” Drake's twin was dressed for travel and had a long rifle in one hand.

“Grab her, brother! She's lost her mind!”

“Stay out of this!” Shannon said.

Damon stared from one to the other.

“Grab her, damn it!” Drake repeated.

Shannon glared at Damon. “Come near me, and I'll give you the same.”

Damon threw up his hands. “I'm not getting between a man and his bride on their wedding night.”

“Then if you're not going to help, get out!” Drake said.

“Pa needs you. Captain Wormwood took out six men this morning to hunt fresh meat. They walked into an Injun ambush. The captain and four of the soldiers died. Massacred. Only one made it back to Fort Hood alive. Pa says we got to go back afore they hit here. Round up your livestock. We're leaving in half an hour.”

Drake looked at her. “Did you hear that? We gotta go. But don't think I'll forget this. You're not gettin' off without—”

“I think you're both crazy.” Damon leaned his rifle against the doorjamb. “You can fight anytime. Why you'd rather cut each other than make bacon on your wedding night puzzles me, but we've got to get out of here before we all end up like Captain Wormwood.”

“I'm not going back to the fort,” Shannon said. “I'd rather take my chances with the Indians.”

Drake swore. “Told ye she was crazy, didn't I, brother?”

“You go, if you're scared,” she said. “I'm never setting foot in that fort again.”

“You're my wife. You'll do what I say!”

“Will I? How's that working for you so far?”

“Settle this,” Damon warned. “I'm getting back to Pa's. If you stay, it's your hair.”

“I'd rather stay than go one step with a child killer. Did you know about those?” she asked Damon. “They're scalps.” She pointed toward the hearth. “Or were you with him? Did you murder children too?”

Damon scoffed. “Not me. I don't like Injuns any better than the next white man, but I'm not about to risk my neck wandering around the mountains in the night. Drake did that all on his self. Pa wasn't pleased about it, neither.”

“That's the first sensible thing I've heard out of your pa.” She moved so that her back was to the wall, but kept her gaze on Drake. “You can tell him that this marriage is over.”

“What? Ye think anybody would give ye a dee'vorce over some damned Injun scalps?” Drake asked incredulously. “Now I know you're cracked. May as well lock you in the madhouse with the rest of the loonies.”

“Divorce, annulment, I don't care what you call it. I doubt if our so-called marriage is legal anyway. You run back to the fort with your family. I mean to go home to my father.”

“Small chance of that,” Drake said. “It's three days over the mountains. If the savages don't get you, the wolves and panthers will.”

“Flynn didn't sound much like he wanted you,” Damon put in. “You'd best lower your hackles and come with us.”

“My father didn't know what you'd done. We were there that night; did you know that, Drake? You killed his friends. You could have killed him or me. I know he would have killed you if he'd gotten you in his rifle sights.”

Drake gathered up his boots and yanked them on over his bare feet. “Leave her,” he said to his brother. “She'll change her tune once she sees us movin' out.”

“Will I?” she said. “Wait and see. I'll shoot you myself before I lie down in your bed.”

“You're bound to leave him, then,” Damon asked.

“I am. And God help anybody who tries to take me by force.”

Damon shook his head. “All right. I can see you're whipped up something fierce. Tell you what. You stay here in the valley, we'll go. If you bide here until we get back from the fort and Injuns don't massacre you—if you still want to be shut of him, I'll see you home to your pa.”

“The hell you will,” Drake said. He took down his rifle and grabbed his vest. “Don't come cryin' to me, bitch, if you end up dead.”

Damon touched his forelock in salute. “Gotta admire you, Shannon O'Shea. You do know how to pitch a temper.”

Drake sucked at the cut on his hand. “You'll be sorry for this,” he promised.

“I'll wait here for you,” she said to Damon, “but I won't change my mind. It was a mistake for me to marry him in the first place. No matter what happens, it can't be worse than sleeping with a murderer.”

 

Shannon didn't sleep at all that night. Instead, she'd sat by the hearth, a rifle by her feet. Whether she dreaded Drake's return or an Indian attack more, she didn't know. Finally, at dawn, Betty's loud bawling drew her from the cabin, bucket in one hand, loaded rifle in another.

Damon had left her his own rifle, assuring her that his father would lend him one of his. Drake had tried to talk him out of it, and Shannon remembered his final words. “Whatever happens is on her own head. Let the Injuns have her. She's no good to me.”

The rain had stopped, and the world seemed new and fresh as Shannon walked to the pound where the cow stood by the gate. Drake had taken his horses, and he'd driven off his cattle. Only Betty and the big-headed pony remained. Badger raised his head and nickered as he saw her coming.

Shannon wished Drake had taken the cow but was glad he'd left her pony. Betty had to be milked morning and night or she'd become sick. Shannon wondered what she'd do with gallons of milk and no one else to use it. It seemed such a waste when she knew that the settlers' children would be hungry inside the fort walls. They'd be lucky if none of them caught typhus or the pox. Stuffing so many people in a small space without clean water and a place to dispose of waste was a recipe for disaster. She'd seen far too much of that at the children's home.

She leaned her rifle against the fence and went to the shed for grain. Both the pony and cow could use a good meal. There was grass in the pound, but not much, and the horses and cattle had churned that to a muddy stew last night.

The little cabin stood proudly in the center of a clearing. Off to the left, Drake had cleared land to put in a crop, but charred tree stumps remained scattered across the field. The other homesteads were far enough away that Shannon couldn't see them. If the neighbors had remained in the valley, she supposed smoke from their chimneys would have been visible, but this morning, the sky was clear and robin's egg blue.