Cherokee Storm (5 page)

“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?

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.