Cherokee Storm (17 page)

He scaled the fence and crossed the open place to where he'd left his horse. Far off, an owl hooted. “I hear you, brother,” he said. And he wondered if the owl called to a lost mate or if he called to herald another death.

Shannon had chosen another man over him. She had given him her body and taken his heart in exchange. She had spoken words of love, and then had returned to her father's house and betrayed him with another.

For this he had shamed his mother and broken tradition. For this he had hurt Cardinal and made her to seem of little worth in the eyes of the women. All for a yellow-haired woman who cared so little for him that she could not tell him that she had taken pleasure with him but it meant nothing to her.

So be it. He could not return to his mother and tell her that he'd been mistaken, that he was a fool, that a white-skinned witch had cast a spell over him. That he could not do. And he could not go to Cardinal and say, “Now that she won't have me, I'll take you to wife.” That he could not do, either.

He would take no wife. He would do whatever his clan and nation asked of him. If it was their wish, he would go to war against the whites. He would lay down his life in the service of his people. But he would never give his heart to a woman again. He would trust no woman and allow none to pass beneath the shield he would erect around his shattered spirit.

Oona and Truth Teller need not fear that he would follow Shannon to her new husband's lodge. He would never lift his hand in anger against her, her father, or her man. But he would do everything in his power to drive the rest of the whites back beyond the mountains, out of Cherokee land. He would do what he must to protect the land of the
Tsalagi
from the white-skinned invaders.

The pain curled within his breast, coiling and writhing like a rattlesnake. And when the pain was too great, he threw back his head and howled one great wolf cry of black and bitter anguish.

 

Oona heard the owl. Shortly after came the unearthly howl that raised gooseflesh on the back of her arms. The owl's call was bad luck, but the wolf cry was worse. She knew the sound was not made by any living wolf but some spirit creature. Frightened, she called the hounds inside the house and barred the door. She threw logs on the fire, despite the heat, and crouched by the hearth.

The dogs drew close around her and she stroked their heads for courage. “What could I do?” she whispered in the language of her childhood. “I said only what my good husband bade me say.”

The hound bitch raised her head and gazed into Oona's eyes.

“I lied. Yes, it was a lie, but I had to do what my husband wanted.”

The hound looked unconvinced.

“It is better this way. Shannon will marry one of her own. Storm Dancer's mother would never permit him to take her to wife. She would have her killed first. Either way, he would never have her.”

The dog stretched out and closed her eyes.

“Does the owl call for me?” Oona murmured into the empty cabin. “Does death wait for me?” She threw another log on the hearth and sat awake all through the night staring into the coals.

 

On the third day, Flynn turned back. “Fort Hood is only a little way ahead,” he said. “I need to return to the post.”

“Take me home with you,” Shannon begged. “Please, Da. Don't make me do this.”

“I expect you to marry her as soon as the minister can read the words,” Flynn said. “If I hear otherwise, Drake Clark, you'll have me to answer to.”

“Yes, sir,” Drake said. “I give you my word.”

“And if I refuse, will you drag me to the priest? Force me to say the words?” she asked. In the hours and days of their journey, she'd thought she'd reconciled herself to her fate. She'd as good as given her pledge to Drake, but now, when Da was leaving, she lost her courage.

“You'll thank me for this in time, girl,” Flynn said. He rode close and grasped her outstretched hand. “God go with ye, darlin'.”

“Da!” She tried to hold tight to his fingers, but he pulled away. “Don't leave me.”

Drake dismounted and took hold of her pony's bridle. “You take care with your hair, Flynn O'Shea,” he said. “And don't worry about Shannon. Ma will see to her.”

Without another word, her father slapped his horse's rump and turned the animal's head west, back into the mountains, the way they had come, leaving her as alone and desolate as she had ever been.

Shannon's forced stay at Fort Hood was every bit as miserable as she'd guessed it would be. Drake, Damon, and most of the able men had followed the soldiers on an expedition to head off a combined attack by the French and Shawnee or the Cherokee if they rose against the English. Even Nathan Clark had gone, as eager as any of the rest to kill as many Indians and Frenchmen as possible.

Shannon was left with the women and children, and nine soldiers considered too infirm, or useless, to go into the field. In command of those sorry representatives of His Majesty's finest was a young captain, fresh from England, who had never set eyes on an Indian until he'd reached the Smoky Mountains. Captain Wormwood, in Shannon's opinion, would have been of more use changing baby nappies than giving orders.

There were far too many people within the walls. The settlers, crammed with their dogs, belongings, and livestock into a muddy section of the wooden enclosure, were frightened. Worse, it had begun to rain shortly after Shannon had arrived with Drake and his brother. Rain had fallen for all but three days of the two weeks since she'd arrived. With the rain had come sickness, a plague of fleas, and running of the bowels. The stench of vomit mixed with dog droppings and cow manure. The awful smells did nothing to encourage Shannon's appetite, especially when their diet consisted of salt pork, dried peas, and hard tack riddled with weevils.

Contrary to what Drake had promised her father, he hadn't insisted that the two of them marry as soon as they reached the fort. Instead, Drake had turned Shannon over to his mother, Hannah, and rushed off to play soldier. The delay hadn't bothered Shannon, but the older woman's obvious disapproval of the betrothal made living in an eight-by-six tent with her and Jane, Cory Jakes's widow, nearly impossible.

True to her sour disposition and the lack of proper grazing, Betty the cow had caused trouble, kicking at the other cows and dogs, and providing only half her normal amount of milk. What there was, Shannon couldn't drink, not when there were hungry babies and crying children to feed.

“I don't know why my son wants to marry you,” Hannah complained one evening as rain beat on the roof of the leaky tent and seeped under the walls to dampen the blankets. “You're not cut out to be a wife. You've caused trouble between my boys, and you're too forward for a woman by a long shot.”

Shannon would have answered back, but she agreed with everything Hannah Clark said. She wasn't cut out to be a wife, and Drake probably did deserve better. But she didn't intend to spend the rest of her life as a servant, either.

It was “Shannon, can you clean up this young'n fer me?” And “Girl, someone needs to milk that cow.” And “Fetch a bucket, I'm gonna puke.” Hannah scolded and gave her orders, as did most of the married women. Jane Jakes did nothing but weep, and Alice Clayton, the only girl anywhere near to Shannon's age, turned up her nose and refused to speak to her at all.

Wind rocked the tent. A seam split, and water poured in, soaking Jane who began to wail. Hannah began to berate the woman as if she had done something to cause the tear in the roof, and Shannon could stand it no longer. Grabbing her blanket and throwing it around her, she stepped out into the blustery night.

The nearest shelter was the lean-to reserved for the soldiers' mounts, now mostly empty. Shannon ran for it, ducked into the shadowy interior, and collided with a man.

“Well, now, honey, I wondered where you were.” Male arms locked around her.

The voice was either Drake's or his brother, Damon's. But even for them, the tones were rough. As her captor pulled her against his chest, she caught a whiff of rum.

“Let me—” Her protest was cut off by a hard mouth. Frightened, she struggled to pull away and bit down as the man tried to thrust his tongue between her teeth.

“Don't be like that, darling.”

“Drake?” The harder she wiggled, the tighter he held her. “Are you drunk?”

“It's Damon.” He kissed her again. This time she made no effort to fight him, but she kept her teeth clenched together. He grunted and nuzzled her neck. When a big hand fumbled for her breast, she stomped down on the top of his foot. “Ouch! Damn it! That's no way to treat a man.”

As he hopped on one foot, she slipped free and backed away, putting a wet horse between her and Drake's intoxicated brother. “What's wrong with you?” she demanded. Anger replaced her fear. Damon wouldn't dare assault her. If she screamed, someone would hear and come running.

“Nothing. Nothing that you couldn't fix.”

He grabbed for her, but she backed up until she hit the wall and her hand closed around the wooden handle of a pitchfork. “Stay away from me,” she warned. “Or I'll stick you so full of holes your mother will be able to see daylight through you.”

“Bitch. You're making a mistake, you know. I'm the one you should be marrying. We're alike, you and me. Drake's wrong for you.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yeah. He didn't like it much, either.” He leaned on the log post that held up the roof and rubbed his foot. “Damn, Shannon. You didn't have to do that. All I wanted was a kiss.”

“Drake would rip your head off if I told him what you did.” She raised the pitchfork.

“Tell away. And I'll tell him you wanted it. That you led me on. Who do you think he'd believe?”

“Are you sure?”

Damon cursed under his breath. “What? You meeting some other man out here? Some soldier? All decent women are in their tents.”

“Where is Drake? And why are you back without him?” She was certain that he wouldn't try to grab her again, but she kept her weapon in case.

She was so disgusted, she was of a mind to run the pitchfork through him anyway. Would she never be done with fighting randy men off? At the orphanage, there were always hot hands reaching for unsuspecting little girls, and later, at the tavern, it was worse. Every Jack Dandy with two copper for a mug of ale thought he could tumble the serving wenches at his leisure.

“Shannon? What the hell are you doin' out here in the dark?” Drake's bulk materialized out of the rainy night.

“Don't worry, brother,” Damon said. “I'm here with her. I was just telling her that the two of us come back with George Hatapi, the Delaware scout.”

“Lord in heaven, woman.” Drake pushed between the horses, took hold of her shoulders, and gave her a rough kiss. “I missed you bad.”

His mouth tasted of rum and tobacco, but she wasn't repelled by it. Marriage to Drake couldn't be that bad, could it? He was a simple man, with simple tastes. Surely, they could work things out between them.

The thought that Drake's kiss didn't thrill her the way that Storm Dancer's had, surfaced, but she pushed it away. Storm Dancer had married another woman. He didn't want her. He'd gotten what he wanted from her and then abandoned her. If she was going to have a life, she'd have to make one for herself.

Drake kissed her again, and Damon laughed. “Guess I'd best leave you two lovebirds alone. I'll go see what Ma has in the cooking pot. We like to starved on the trail, but we killed Shawnee. And a Frenchman. That ought to teach them a lesson.”

“I hope she's got something to eat,” Drake echoed. “I've had my fill of half-raw squirrel and hard tack.”

Shannon forced herself to relax in Drake's embrace. Soon, she would be his wife. A husband had a right to expect certain things from a wife. “I'm glad you're safe,” she said. “Is your father all right? Was anyone hurt? Any of our people, that is?”

Drake kissed her again, gave her a bear hug, and released her. “Two dead, one broke his leg fallin' off his horse when Injuns started screeching. I think we'll be safe to go back to the farm in the mornin'.”

Shannon took a deep breath. “Will we be married first? The women said there was no parson or priest here. How could we—”

“Camp commander can read the words, give us a paper. Pa asked. Then, first chance we get, we'll get it done right. Priest or minister, don't matter to me. But it wouldn't be fittin' to take you to my house without havin' some kind of ceremony. Pa wouldn't stand for it.”

No priest? Not even a Protestant man of God? Shannon's gut clenched. Maybe she should refuse and go back East. Start over. But she knew she wouldn't. She knew she couldn't bear to put the mountains between her and her father—to never see her half-sister or half-brother. That would be worse than dying. She'd been alone and unwanted too long. This good man had asked for her hand in marriage, and only a fool would refuse.

“Whatever you say, Drake,” she murmured. “Whatever you think best.”

He laughed. “What I think best is you give me a sample of being married, here and now. Damnation, I'm hard as a poker just thinkin' about our weddin' night.”

She stiffened. “No. It wouldn't be right. After the wedding, Drake. It's the right way to start off our marriage.”

“Hellfire, woman, it ain't like I'm askin' fer somethin' you ain't already give some other Johnny.”

She darted under a tethered horse's neck and out into the downpour. “After the wedding, Drake Clark. There'll be time enough for pinch and tickle once we're man and wife.”

“Hang on, Shannon!”

“After the wedding!” she repeated. And, ignoring his pleas, she dashed back through the mud to the comparative safety of his mother's crowded tent.

 

Flynn O'Shea settled onto the bench on his front porch. “Drake Clark's a little rough, but he's a decent man. He'll give her a good home.”

Oona bent over the cradleboard she was stitching. “Your daughter is like you. She can find water in a rock. She will make a good life wherever she is.”

The hound bitch laid her head on Oona's foot, and the woman scratched the dog behind her ears.

“It was hard to send her away.”

“Yes.”

“I think she'll be safe enough in Green Valley. The raiders that hit the settlement weren't Cherokee at all. One Indian they killed, the one in the turban, was a half-breed Creek. The rest may have been robbers or those runaway slaves we heard about. If there were any Shawnee, they didn't leave any proof.”

“Good. The Cherokee make bad enemies.”

Flynn rubbed at his right arm. The recurring ache had returned. The long spell of rain had kept him housebound, and for once he didn't mind. He just didn't seem to have the energy he usually had. All spring and into the summer he'd been short of breath. He wasn't sleeping well either, just couldn't get comfortable.

Worrying about Shannon had made his insomnia worse. She'd been so unhappy. Turning away from her tears had ripped him apart, but he had to think of her. There was no question of her being with a Cherokee, not Storm Dancer, not any of them. It was like mixing saltwater and good Irish whiskey. It could never have worked. Once the fire died back, both would have regretted it. And considering the boy's mother and what she could do, if she had a mind to, he'd done the only thing any father could. He'd chosen to send her away.

“She'll make Drake a good wife.”
Like you,
he almost added. Oona had made him happier than he'd ever thought possible when he'd brought her home. He never noticed her scarred face anymore, just how pretty she was and how graceful she moved.

Had he thought his first wife was beautiful when she carried Shannon? He couldn't remember. But Oona was beautiful. He loved the swell of her belly and the womanly way her breasts had plumped up. Best of all was the peace she brought with her. Wherever she was, nestled together in their bed, camped beside a wild tumbling stream down some high valley, or helping him in the store, it didn't matter. When they were together, life got suddenly easier to bear.

Except this thing with Shannon and Storm Dancer….

“Firefly would have sent someone to kill her before she'd let my girl have her son. She's no more anxious for a white daughter-in-law than I am a red son-in-law.”

Silence from Oona. The only sounds were the panting of the dogs, frogs and insects, and the whistle of a mockingbird. The rain had tapered off, and a red sunset spilled across the western sky.

“You think I did wrong, wife?”

“This woman told him to go and never return.”

“Like I asked ye.”

No answer.

Flynn tapped his pipe against the floor and pushed the burnt tobacco through the crack between the boards with the toe of his moccasin. “That's the thing about bein' a father. Sometimes you have to hurt a colleen to do what's best for her.”

Oona raised her gaze to meet his. “Are you well? I see pain in your eyes. And you're rubbing that arm again. I've made a tea from the inner bark of black ash. If you will take it, it will ease your weariness.”

He tamped Indian tobacco into the pipe bowl. Later, he would light it from the coals on the hearth. For now, he would enjoy the sensation of the stem between his lips. The pipe was nearly worn out, like him. Maybe he'd take some of the seasoned cherry wood hanging in the loft and whittle a new bowl tomorrow.

One of the dogs let out a yip. The bitch growled, low in her throat, and the hackles rose on her neck. Instantly, all three hounds sprang off the porch and ran barking toward the small gate that led to the spring path. Flynn reached for his gun.

Oona's eyes widened. “What is it?”

“Bear, maybe. Or a stray wolf.”

She looked at him with knowing eyes. No wolf or bear would come within a hundred yards of the post in daylight.

“Go on go inside,” he ordered. “Lock the door. If you hear shots or anything you don't like, hide.” He was already down the steps and striding toward the barred gate. Then he felt the sensation of a puff of cold air on the nape of his neck.

“Go carefully, husband,” Oona called after him.

He stopped and glanced back. Tiny black sparks peppered the air in front of his eyes. The pain in his chest twisted and he sucked in air. “If the worst happens, and you survive, go to Split Cane's village. She'll take you in.”