by Janet Dailey
"Miss Temple." Phoebe paused in the doorway, one hand pressing at the small of her back. "Dulcie just told me that in all the confusion with the accident in the kitchen, she forgot to put the roast on to cook. She wants to know what she should fix Master Stuart for dinner now."
"How could she forget?" Impatiently, Temple raked the comb through Lije's wet hair, ignoring the face he made as the teeth dug into his scalp. "I don't know why it should surprise me," she muttered irritably. "Nothing else has gone right this morning. What time is it?"
"I heard the clock strike half past ten a few minutes ago."
"Is it that late?" Temple pushed to her feet. "Finish combing Lije's hair while I go to the kitchen and see about dinner."
"But aren't you—"
"There is no point in going to see Father and Eliza now. I would have to turn around and leave almost as soon as I got there. We'll go tomorrow. Kipp will have to understand that this morning has been one calamity after another!"
A little more than an hour later, substituting smoked ham for the beef roast, Temple had the noon meal ready to serve and the table set. She stepped outside to check on Lije. He was there, pretending to feed blades of grass to his rocking horse.
"He likes it, Mama. I get some more." He ran to the grassy area in front of the cabin. Stopping, he pointed excitedly toward the road. "Look, Mama! Here comes Papa Stuart. Please, can we go meet him? I want to ride in his buggy."
Unable to resist the eager appeal of those brilliant blue eyes, Temple smiled and nodded permission. "But you have to walk with me. I don't want you running in front of the horse."
"Hurry, Mama." He ran back and grabbed her hand.
Responding to the tug of his hand, she quickened her pace to a running walk. When they reached the dirt road in front of the cabin, Temple saw the oncoming buggy and lifted a hand to wave to Shawano Stuart.
A dozen masked men sprang from behind the trees on either side of the road. Three of them grabbed the horse's bridle and forced it to a halt. "No." Temple caught Lije by the shoulders and pulled him back to her side. There was a flash of Shawano's silver-handled cane as he tried to beat off his attackers. "Phoebe!" she cried, then pushed Lije toward the cabin. "Go find Phoebe and stay with her. Quickly."
Instinctively, Temple ran toward the buggy. "No! What are you doing?" she cried, fear and anger mixing together. "Stop it!"
The men paid no attention to her as they pulled Shawano from the buggy. He struggled valiantly and Temple had a glimpse of the fierce fighter he had once been. Then the first knife was plunged into his back.
"No!" she screamed.
A man turned to block her path. When she saw the pair of dark accusing eyes above the black kerchief, Temple stopped. She didn't have to see the rest of his face. She recognized those eyes.
"Kipp, no," she moaned softly.
Before he turned away, she saw the lust for revenge that burned so vividly in his eyes. When he joined the others, Temple suddenly understood what was happening. Shawano Stuart was now paying the price for his crime against the Nation. And the price was death. Ice cold, she watched knife after bloody knife tear at the old man's body. Unable to stand any more, she looked away, shutting her eyes in horror and revulsion.
"Papa Stuart! Papa Stuart!" Lije's sobbing voice sounded behind her.
She turned as he came running toward her. Phoebe lumbered after him as fast as her child-heavy body would allow. Temple scooped him into her arms and turned him away from the sight, forcing his head against her shoulder so he wouldn't witness the execution of his grandfather. She wished she could cover his ears so he wouldn't hear the sounds of the knives plunging into the body or the gasping moans.
She hugged Lije tightly, oblivious to his frightened struggles and the tears streaming down her cheeks. It was here, the day she had long dreaded. The Blade—had they killed him already? Or was his death yet to come? She sank to the ground, clutching their son in her arms.
The Blade. With each stab of the knife, she silently screamed his name. She couldn't pray for his life to be spared. She had known, as The Blade had known, that when he signed that treaty, he had signed the warrant for his death. He had sacrificed his life with that one act.
The dull thudding sound ceased. Unwillingly, her eyes were drawn to the death scene as the twelve executioners marched single file over the body, ritualistically stamping on the lifeless form, then continuing into the trees. She could hear the noisy rustling of horses in the woods, their snorts followed by the rapid pounding of hooves.
She was vaguely conscious of others venturing toward her, but Phoebe was the only one she took any notice of. "Take Lije away." Temple gave her frightened and weeping son into Phoebe's arms, shielding his eyes from the sight of his slain grandfather. "Don't let him see," she whispered, her own gaze riveted to the body.
Phoebe scurried away carrying Lije. Temple tried to go to Shawano, but her legs were slow to cooperate. Finally, she knelt beside him and stared at the spreading scarlet stains from the multiple wounds to his chest. She lifted her glance to his face and the sightless eyes that stared directly into the sun. Slowly, tentatively, Temple reached out and gently closed their lids with the tips of her fingers.
He was dead.
"Shawano." She spoke his name softly and slid an arm under his head and shoulders, then pulled the heavy weight of him onto her, cradling his head on her lap. "He didn't see, Shawano." She smoothed his mane of snow white hair. "Your grandson didn't see."
Someone led the horse and buggy away while the rest drifted closer. Temple was too numbed by the violent tragedy to be more than remotely aware of the small crowd that gathered around her. There were no more tears to blur her eyes, no more sobs to choke her throat, just the horrible emptiness of grief, shock, and fear.
She heard the thunder of hoofbeats and felt the ground vibrating beneath her. A horse slid to a halt near her, its stiffened front legs entering the outside range of her vision. She didn't look up. Help had arrived too late for Shawano.
"Father," a voice groaned.
The Blade's voice. When he sank to the ground beside the body, Temple lifted her head. She had almost convinced herself she would never see him alive again. But there he was. She drank in the sight of him.
"You are alive. You are still alive," she whispered brokenly. "I thought they had killed you too."
Rage like none she had ever seen twisted his face. "Who?" he demanded thickly. "Who did this?"
"They were waiting for him ... in the woods ... when he came home for dinner." She had to force the words out. With each one it became more difficult to keep from crying. She didn't want to tell The Blade what had happened, she didn't want to describe it to him. She didn't want to hurt him with all the painful details. "He is dead. What does it matter who, or how?"
"Damn them." His shoulders slumped as he hung his head, pressing a white-knuckled fist to his face. "Damn them to hell."
She felt his pain and his anger. It tortured her, especially when she remembered she wasn't supposed to have been there this morning to witness it. "Kipp warned me, but I—"
"You knew!" The Blade seized her arm in an iron grip. "You knew and you stood by and let them murder him!"
"No, I—" Roughly, he released her and rolled swiftly to his feet. When she reached up, Temple saw the blood on her hand— Shawano's blood. "I didn't know."
It was true. She hadn't realized why Kipp had been so anxious for her to visit her father's ... she hadn't guessed this was his reason.
But if she had, what would she have done? Shawano had broken the law. His death was inevitable. Knowing that, would she have kept silent? Dear God, she truly didn't know. She didn't think she would have, but how could she be sure?
The Blade swung away from her and snatched up the horse's trailing reins. Temple watched in disbelief as he stepped a foot into the stirrup. "Where are you going?"
His eyes were like chips of blue ice. "I will not make it so easy for the assassins to find me. They
will have to search."
He couldn't believe she would betray him, thought Temple. But he did. It was there in the accusing glare of his eyes. He swung into the saddle and rode off into the woods.
34
I wish she would stop crying," Will muttered under his breath as a tearful Phoebe shuffled out of the parlor. She hadn't stopped weeping and blowing her nose since they had arrived at the Stuarts' the previous afternoon.
"She is worried about Deu." Eliza spoke softly to keep her voice from carrying to Temple. "He went with The Blade."
"I know." Will sighed. He didn't object to the pregnant woman's concern for her man, but her tears were a constant reminder to Temple of yesterday's violence.
A violence that hadn't been limited to the killing of his old friend Shawano Stuart. At dawn yesterday, John Ridge had been dragged from his bed and taken outside. There he had been held and stabbed repeatedly while his family looked on. Elias Boudinot had been lured from the site of the new house he was building by men requesting medicine for ailing members of their family. Halfway to the mission, he had been stabbed in the back and his skull cleaved by a tomahawk. The body of Major Ridge had been found with five bullet holes in it along Line Road a mile inside Arkansas.
The Blade, Stand Watie, and others of the treaty party had managed to escape traps that had been set for them. All had taken to the hills. Some threatened to avenge the deaths of their comrades and kin by taking the life of John Ross. John Ross himself had been appalled when he learned of the killings and disavowed any knowledge of the perpetrators.
News of the deaths had spread like a grass fire whipped by angry winds. Feelings were running high throughout the entire Nation. Will knew it wasn't over and he was certain his daughter knew it as well.
She stood at the parlor window, staring at the freshly turned sod of Shawano Stuart's grave. There was a ghostly pallor to her face, which was wiped clean of any expression, as if she were waiting.. . waiting to receive word of The Blade's death. Even while he understood her lack of emotion, it frightened him. Temple, his strong, fiery daughter, was but a pale shadow of her former self—her graceful body rigid with tension, and her dark, luminous eyes painfully dry.
Eliza lightly squeezed his hand and whispered, "Ask her to come stay with us. It isn't good for her to remain here."
He nodded briefly and walked over to her. If she was aware of his presence, she gave no sign of it. "Temple, Eliza and I want you and Lije to come home with us."
"No." There was no emotion in her answer, just a simple refusal.
"I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think it was best for you to get away."
"No," Temple repeated more forcefully, the tone of her voice still level. "I am not leaving here. This is my son's home. It is my home. There is a house to be built, crops to be tended, and a sawmill to run. No matter what happens, we will not leave."
Although Will doubted her calmness, her determination was unmistakable. He felt a swell of pride for this proud, courageous woman who was his daughter. He had lost so much, but looking at Temple, he realized how much he still had.
"If that is what you want, Temple, then I will do everything I can to help. But I don't like the idea of you staying here alone. Kipp can—"
"No!" Her sudden flare of anger took him by surprise. Will remembered now the depth of Kipp's hatred toward all who had signed the treaty. How could he have forgotten the glitter of satisfaction that had been in his son's eyes when he had ridden home to inform them of the deaths of the Ridges, Boudinot, and, yes, Shawano? Will privately acknowledged that his choice of company for Temple had been a poor one and didn't argue with her further.
During the ride home that evening, the hills were bathed in the blood-red glow of a setting sun. Red, the color was everywhere in the Nation ... and in the hearts of too many men. Will quietly studied Kipp when he joined them to ride alongside the team of horses. A rifle was in his hand, the long muzzle resting in the crook of his left arm.
Youth, Will thought, why did it behave so rashly without considering the consequences? A climate of fear and hatred now prevailed. Still, he recognized that it wasn't fair to blame only the young men. The swirl of rumors that had followed in the wake of the assassinations had claimed that older, supposedly wiser men had been involved as well.
How actively had his son participated in them? How damning was Kipp's absence? Had he been a member of one of the execution squads or merely a supporter? The questions haunted Will, but he didn't want to know the answers. Kipp was his son.
From the day he learned of the treaty, Will had deplored the actions of those who had signed it, regardless of their motives. They had broken the law. Yet, like John Ross, he had recognized that to take action against them could rip their nation apart at a time when they needed to stand together. And it was even more true today. The council meeting had shown that the western Cherokees and the treaty party were allied. Instead of uniting the various factions as Ross had hoped, the killings had created a rift even greater than before and made the possibility of a civil war very real. And his family—his son and daughter—was caught in the middle of the conflict.
All was quiet when they arrived home. Will halted the team in front of the shack, wrapped the reins around the brake handle, and climbed down. When he walked around the wagon to help Eliza, he noticed that Kipp didn't dismount.
Reaching up, he gripped Eliza by the waist and lifted her to the ground. Just for an instant, Will was conscious of the slight thickening of her middle. Briefly, he met the upward glance of her hazel eyes. He suddenly wondered whether their child's eyes would be flecked with gold like hers. With some surprise, he realized this was the first time he had thought of the baby growing in her womb as a living entity, separate and distinct yet forever a part of them.
"I will start supper while you unhitch the team." Eliza moved away.
He watched her, wanting to call her back and tell her what he was thinking. It had been a long time since he had talked to her. But Kipp was there. Will turned. "Give me a hand with the team."
"Call Shadrach. He's about somewhere. He can help you." Kipp's horse shifted beneath him as if anticipating a command. "I'm leaving. I will be gone a few days."
"Where?" Will noticed the way Kipp refused to look directly at him.
"To John Ross's home at Park Hill. I heard Watie has gathered a small army of men around him. He thinks Ross is responsible for his brother's death and seeks to avenge it by taking his life."
"So you go there to protect him."
"Yes. There are already twenty or so men around the house, but we don't know Watie's strength. General Arbuckle refuses to send any troops from Fort Gibson to protect Ross. He wants Ross to come in, but he will only arrest him if he does."
"Ross never sanctioned these assassinations, did he?" It was the closest Will would come to asking his son about his knowledge of the events.
"No."
That one answer told Will that Kipp knew a great deal more. "I didn't think so." Will climbed back onto the wagon seat.
Kipp rode off into the rose-purple twilight. Clicking to the team, Will drove the wagon over to the small corral and lean-to.
Black Cassie scooped the last of the eggs and wild onions out of the heavy iron skillet. Eliza checked the table to make certain all was in readiness for the evening meal. A cloth covered the plate of hot corn pone. The jars of molasses and honey were set out. The new dishes and tableware were in place.
Satisfied, she stepped to the doorway to summon Will to the table. As she started to call out, she saw him sitting on the stoop, staring at an evening star that glittered faintly in the purpling sky.
Eliza suddenly wanted to cry. When he had returned from the council meeting, she had gotten the impression that he had emerged from the cocoon of grief and melancholy that had surrounded him all these months. She had dared to hope that the Will Gordon she loved was back. But there he was again, staring into space, Shawano's death and the other killings sendin
g him back into that world of black despair.
"Will." She heard the ache in her voice and tried to rid herself of it. "Supper is ready."
When he stood, she started to turn away. "Is that all?" he asked. Puzzled by his strange question, Eliza frowned at him. "Are you not going to lecture me on idleness?"
In the half-light of eventide, she couldn't be sure if that was a smile she saw in his eyes. She took a step closer, moving out of the doorway and onto the stoop. It was a smile.
"Will." Dazed, she reached out to touch him, afraid she was dreaming this.
But he took her hand and gently pulled her toward him. "I had forgotten how very beautiful you are," he murmured, then claimed her lips in a kiss that was at once sweet in its gentleness and searing in its passion. It had been months since he had kissed her like that. She dissolved against him, happy and confused, her heart racing, her mind spinning.
"I don't understand," she whispered against his shirt.
"I am not certain that I do either." He lifted her head away from his chest and framed her face in his hands, absently stroking her hair. "Somewhere on the trail, I lost my faith in tomorrow. I found it again. I don't know where or how. Maybe it came from the baby you are carrying, or maybe Temple's determination to build a home for her son, or maybe seeing Kipp's destructive hate. Or maybe it was your impatience and love. Or maybe it was all of that. I don't claim that it makes sense. I only know that before I didn't care, and now I want tomorrow to come."
"So do I." Eliza smiled through her tears, loving him more than she had thought it possible to love a man.
His hands slid down her shoulders. He turned, slipping an arm around her and holding her close to his side while he gazed at the shadowy land of their new home. "It's too late to plant any crops this year. But we have plenty of grass. We can sell the wagon and buy some cattle, fatten them on it. I know how to build, even though our cabin is a poor example of my work. I designed and constructed half the buildings at Gordon Glen. A lot of homes, barns, mills, and schools need to be built. If Temple will hire out two of her skilled blacks to help me, I can get my share of the contracts. It won't be easy at first, but we will make it."