Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) (14 page)

CHAPTER
22

In the Village

He didn’t see her the next morning, but he wasn’t overly surprised at that. She was probably a bit spooked after their little interlude by the river, though he hoped she’d gotten past that. For a moment, he questioned whether he should have kissed her or not that day, then dismissed the question. She hadn’t objected, as far as he could recall. And it had been something he’d needed to do. But now, since she’d disappeared, he figured he’d have to tread carefully again, let her take the next step.

Soquili took him to a different site along the riverbank in the morning, passing between houses, pausing to speak to women hard at work skinning the recent catch, then stopping where three men worked on a forty-foot canoe. The massive yellow poplar had been felled months before, and small curls of smoke still rose from the fires lit along its top. In places the carefully tended fire had finished its job, leaving cooling grey ashes in its wake. The men used axes to remove the ash, hollowing out the boat as they went.

Taking his cue, Jesse pulled an axe from his belt and chipped away at the burnt wood, trying to ignore the heat from the contained burn as it baked his skin from below. Overhead, the sun seethed from a cloudless sky. Sweat soaked the waistband of his trousers, and he wiped streams of it from his face with the back of his arm. The men worked in silence, none of the Cherokee showing any surprise or concern that this white man was included in the process. Of course not. They weren’t stupid. It was damn hard work. Any help was good help.

Jesse was all right with hard work. He was used to it, and he actually preferred working, because it gave him a chance to stop thinking. He and the others worked a few feet at a time, moving slowly, so everything would be completed perfectly. It had taken months to get to this stage, and when they finished this part, they’d spend just as long sealing off the wood with animal fat and pinesap, making the canoe entirely waterproof. After a half hour, Jesse stood back, one hand on his waist, one scratching his head, and looked at the thing, estimating twelve warriors would eventually row from within its sturdy shape.

After a couple of hours, Soquili’d had his fill of labour, so he and Jesse left and headed to the promise of the river. Hard work might be good for the soul, but cold water had never felt so good as it did in the moment when Jesse dove into the deep pool. He swam without surfacing, keeping his eyes open, running his fingers through meadows of reeds and underwater grass. When he finally burst through, blinking at the suddenness of the sun, he spied Soquili loping along the bank, headed toward a thick oak.

Jesse paddled his feet in place, staying deep enough so he could dip under whenever he wanted, but keeping his head up so he could watch Soquili. The Cherokee scaled a gnarled old tree using the outstretched limbs as a ladder, until he stood twenty feet in the air. Then he called down to Jesse and flung himself into the air, landing with a huge splash in the river. His head popped to the surface, black as an eel except for the flashing white smile that clearly invited Jesse to join in.

Grinning, Jesse followed Soquili, climbing up to the thick branch and hanging on while Soquili sidled out to the edge. Soquili waved, beckoning him, but Jesse shook his head. He looked up, spotting another branch six feet higher. Waving Soquili off, he scrambled up, then stepped carefully toward the thinner branches at the end, his toes clinging to the rough bark to keep from slipping off before he was ready. Soquili, standing almost directly beneath him now, laughed.

“Ah, my brother. You always must be better. Some things do not change.”

Jesse grinned maniacally at him, then sprang off the branch, screaming his version of a Cherokee war cry. He could run, climb, crawl, and swim with the best of them, but Jesse had never flown before—other than leaping off a roof, and that hadn’t been anywhere near as high as this. The sensation twisted his belly, sent a bolt of crazy, wonderful fear through him. He whooped with the thrill of it, then plunged into the silence underwater, sinking into the weeds until his toes touched on the silt beneath. Like one of the river frogs, he bunched his legs under him and shot back up, rising weightlessly again.

Waterlogged and glistening under the sunshine, the men climbed and jumped for an hour, as if they were young boys, swimming until neither had the energy to go another step. They dragged themselves to the shore and fell asleep on their backs under a big oak, sharing the first real peaceful moment as brothers they’d ever had. They woke at almost the same instant, both struggling up onto their elbows and saying nothing as they came back to the sunshine and shadows.

“More council today,” Soquili muttered.

Jesse sighed. At least this would be the last one before they headed back to meet with the politicians. He’d had more than enough of these things. Nobody paid any attention to him anyway. What was the point?

“You don’t need me there. I’ll see you after.”

Soquili frowned. “You come. No question.”

“I don’t have a choice?”

Soquili shook his head. “You come.”

“Why? No one wants to hear what I say.”

“You come.”

Stubborn son of a bitch. Jesse plucked a blade of grass from beside him and peeled the outer layer off, slowly enough that the blade stayed whole by the end. Then he tossed it and grabbed another. This one he stuck in his mouth and chewed for a while. Maybe today he could say something that mattered.

Ahtlee silently acknowledged them when they arrived at the crowded council house, then took up his observation post again, braced against the council house wall with his arms crossed, keen eyes reading every expression. Once again, nothing was decided, and the meeting seemed to go on for much longer than three hours. Both Jesse and Soquili came close to nodding off. Jesse felt as if he’d been in there for years, surrounded by pipe smoke and snarling Cherokee. He didn’t know if he contributed to the arguments with his occasional obligatory comment or not—he tried to sound impartial but knew it didn’t come out that way. It’s just that he knew his father, and his father had been smiling. Therefore, the Indians were getting cheated.

Jesse was surprised to see Adelaide waiting when he finally came outside. It was after dusk, but the warm summer air was still heavy as it played with her hair. She had tied it behind her, he saw, in one long tail that flicked up with the breeze as a horse might twitch its tail at a bothersome fly. She leaned against the wall at one corner of the building, arms crossed, and gave him a small smile. Such a pretty smile, he couldn’t help thinking.

“Good evening, Miss Adelaide,” he said.

That prompted a wider smile. “Miss Adelaide? Sounds like I’m an old woman or something. I don’t think I’ve been called that since I was a little girl. And only when I’d done something I shouldn’t have done. Miss Adelaide, Miss Margaret, Miss Ruth . . .” Her smile faltered, but she forced it back and stepped away from the house. He walked alongside her, unexpectedly elated by her presence. After all the dark feelings he’d dealt with during the powwow, after the hours of male cussing and posturing within the sweltering confines of the council house, she was like a cool drink of water.

“How was the meeting?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Do you really want to talk about that?”

She glanced up and met his gaze, then chuckled. “No, I’d rather not. I think I can imagine enough without your stories.”

“Good. I’m tired of thinking about it.”

The wind puffed, lifting her blond tail and draping it over one shoulder. She reached for it and silently stroked its length a few times before tossing it back. So this was how Adelaide did her thinking, he realized. She walked. And maybe, since she’d been waiting to bring him along for the walk, well, maybe she wanted his thoughts as well.

“The Cherokee tend to talk a lot,” she said. “That is, when they want to. Other times, they won’t say a word, but their faces say it all. They’re interesting people.”

“If you say so,” he said. He decided he’d do best to stay neutral, let her say what she wanted. He found that when he tried to start up a talk with a woman, they usually ended up being angry at him. So most times, he let them do it without his help.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she admitted, watching her feet.

That was a pleasant surprise that raised a little heat in his chest. “You are? I thought you’d be thanking whatever gods these people worship the minute my horse left the place. Especially since I didn’t see you around when I got back.” He peeked at her face, saw her hiding a smile, then turned back. “Where we heading?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Nowhere in particular. I just wanted to walk around. If it was daytime, we could go up to the rock, but it’s too dark now.”

Quiet little Adelaide just wanted to walk around with him. Huh. She’d missed him. Jesse had to hold his own grin in check.

They meandered across the field, the day’s heat soothed by the cool swish of grass against their moccasins and the songs of crickets. It was closing in on a full moon, and the big white circle glowed with confidence, surrounded by an endless audience of stars that blinked, one by one, as they came out. Jesse wondered, as he always did, what was going on out there. He remembered Doc’s books, tried to remember some fact from them, thinking maybe if he impressed her, she’d like him a bit more. Then he figured if he got it wrong, she’d only laugh. Best to keep quiet.

A small, untended fire outside one of the council houses had faded into embers. Jesse headed toward the remnants and picked up a couple of sticks along the way.

“Let’s sit awhile,” he suggested.

She nodded, then smiled as he sat beside her on a thick log. Still nervous, he could see, but maybe less so. He dropped one stick gently onto the small fire and jabbed it with the other, shooting sparks into the darkening sky.

“You warm enough?” he asked. She nodded quickly, a nervous movement, but she didn’t speak.

The dying fire sparked, then caught on the stick and started to chew, picking up strength. Jesse poked it some more, encouraging the flames. Adelaide sat quietly beside him, the orange light flickering on her face, brightening it, then dropping it into shadow. He tried not to stare at her, tried to make it look as if he was concentrating on something beyond her. But he couldn’t help being drawn to her simple profile, the occasional blink of those long, pale lashes.

Through the entire dreary, frustrating, unsettling day, Jesse’d wanted nothing more than silence. Now he ached for conversation. Words struggled to get out, then jammed in his throat. Most of them were trite and unimportant anyway, just an excuse to say something, get her talking. He wanted to hear her speak, hear her thoughts, but she was quiet as the moon.

So he stared into the fire as she was doing, letting his mind play tricks with the flames. A breeze flitted through, flaring red to orange, and he imagined he saw black silhouettes dancing, twirling, disappearing. He remembered sitting like this as a boy, as a young man, as a grown man, always the same, stretching his face as close to the heat as he could, daring the fire and himself. And when his eyes burned he’d close them, still relishing the sensitivity of his lips against the heat. When he drew away, the cool air washed over him, tickling the heat of his skin as if it were a feather, and he started wondering how long he should stay this way before seeking the cool—

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

He sat up abruptly, trying not to appear startled. “Nothing much,” he admitted. “You?”

“A quiet fire makes me remember being happy with my sisters, my mother . . . even my father sometimes,” she said.

He nodded, encouraged. This was what he wanted, for her to reach out, share something other than the strange world in which they both now found themselves. He had questions, but the careful whisper of her voice was like a hand holding him back. She sighed, but it wasn’t a sound of peace. It was more like she shoved the air from her lungs.

“It seems like another life,” she said.

“I thought you were happy here.”

“I am, I suppose. It’s just not what I thought my life would be like.”

He chuckled and watched a shower of sparks as the fire popped. “No, I guess not. Me either.”

“And I miss my sisters.”

Her loss had been recent, he remembered Soquili saying, though no one would elaborate on what had happened. His had been oh, fifteen years or so. He’d been just a kid. Barely thought of his family anymore, other than his father, who he’d sooner forget. Did she want to talk about it now? Should he ask? Should he wait? Damn. He never got this right. He decided to take the easy route and keep silent.

“What do you remember?” she asked. She leaned down and picked up a small stick, worrying the bark off it in thin strips.

He glanced at her. She was studying the stick, eyes averted from his gaze. “About what, my family?”

She nodded, her flickering orange expression impossible to read. He stared back at the fire, wondering. What did he remember? He remembered his aunt’s scalp. He remembered Thomas and his fists. And he remembered feeling scared he’d end up just like his father.