Love and Cherish

by Dorothy Garlock

  There were three bunks nailed to the other two walls. Above each, readily available to the sleeper, were slanted wooden pegs holding long flintlock rifles. Farther along on the wall in which the fireplace was built were shelves stocked with tableware and food containers. The shelves, which reached almost to the ceiling, expanded into a work table with legs extending to the floor.

  A long trestle table and two benches took up the space in the middle of the far end of the room. Set at random angles were wooden armchairs, a tiny stool, and a crudely made rocking horse for the child. The room had two glass windows, one at the front and one on the side.

  True shyly handed Cherish two slender wooden skewers. Scraped smooth with the edge of his long knife, they were pointed on each end so that they resembled knitting needles. Cherish thanked him, then stood, bent over, and worked her hair with her fingers until it hung loosely from the top of her head. Whirling it around in a coil, like a rope, she straightened and swirled it around on the top of her head, fastening it with the two pins. Suddenly aware that all three men and little Orah Delle were watching her, fascinated, Cherish turned brick-red, sat down and took the child on her lap.

  “That’s quite a feat,” Sloan said, breaking the silence. “We were wondering how you were going to get all that hair up with only two pegs.”

  “My mother learned how from her mother, and her mother from her mother and so on. I always did it up that way in front of my pa and my brother. I just didn’t think about . . . that it might be unseemly—” Her voice trailed off and she squirmed with embarrassment.

  “Hit were ’bout the sightliest thin’ I e’er did see. Warn’t it, Juicy? Warn’t it purty to see how she done it?”

  “That’s for certain. Purty ain’t the whole of it. ’Twas more sightly than a b’ar pawin’ honey outta a holler tree.”

  Cherish saw that Juicy’s eyes were crinkled at the corners and knew he was laughing. She laughed then.

  “Thank you. Thank you both.”

  CHAPTER

  * 14 *

  When the sun went down, the wind came up and whipped the snow around the cabin. Beside the warm fire, Cherish sat with the men, Orah Delle asleep on her lap. Sloan told True and Juicy about meeting her on the trail, about Mote and Seth, about finding her brother, Roy, in the river.

  He told about meeting up with Pierre.

  “Pierre said give you a hello and that he’d try to be here by Christmas.”

  “I knowed he was out thataway. Don’t it jist beat all ya crossin’ paths like ya done?” True was whittling again. His long fingers and the knife were forming a piece of white wood into something that looked like a curved two-pronged hairpin.

  “Ain’t so surprisin’,” Juicy said. “Iffn there be a skirt in five mile, Pierre’d know of it.”

  Cherish failed to see the warning glance Sloan gave Juicy before he resumed his story about the greenhorn minister and his flock heading for Harrodsburg. At this point Juicy had plenty to say.

  “Harrumpt!” he snorted. “If that ain’t the beatin’est I ever heared of. I jist betcha a two-bit chaw of tobaccy they lost their hair a’ready. I can’t figure out John Harrod a-tellin’ ’em ta come on without no guide or nothin’.”

  “Harrod’s awfully anxious to make a town,” Sloan said seriously. “A preacher and a church will draw people.”

  “Harrumpt!” Juicy snorted. “Preacher ain’t goin’ to draw no folks iffn his skin’s hangin’ on a tree and he ain’t in it.”

  Cherish’s worried eyes were going from one man to the other and Sloan decided it was time to change the subject.

  “Pierre told me that Daniel Boone’s back in Boonesborough. He said that Chief Blackfish let him go after he ran the gauntlet. The men captured with him were sent to Detroit to be ransomed by the British. A lot of folks think there is something fishy about Daniel being the only one to come back. Some say he plans to turn his fort over to the Shawnee. I don’t believe it for a minute, but some folks would find fault with the Lord if it suited their purpose.”

  “I jist can’t think folks ’ud be that stupid . . . harrumpt!”

  “Daniel is insisting on a trial to clear his name.”

  Sloan went on to tell about killing the two Hurons, including Cherish’s part in it.

  “I was surprised by the Hurons,” Sloan admitted. “It was the Cherokee I expected. I’m not worried overly much about an attack here. They’re too afraid of the Shawnee. Have you seen anything of John Spotted Elk?”

  “Ya,” Juicy nodded. “He an’ his sister an’ the ol’ chief was a campin’ ta other side of the river. Had a big mess of Injins with ’em. John and that thar Minnie Dove came by one noon. That Minnie Dove was claimin’ ya was here when I said ya warn’t. Threatened ta cut off my nose with her knife.” Juicy stopped to laugh. “John got so mad he boxed her ears, ’cause she acted up so.” Now Juicy laughed uproariously. “She’s got ’er a powerful cravin’ fer ya, Sloan.”

  Cherish felt the heat rise and flood her face. It hadn’t occurred to her that Sloan might have romantic attachments. By the sound of it the girl was in love with him. With a name like Minnie Dove, she was probably a half-breed. Cherish hid her hot face in the silky curls of the child asleep in her arms.

  “That gal’s ’bout the feistiest Injin gal I ever did see,” Juicy rattled on. “’Course her blood’s jist half Injin an’ that thar would count for some of it. An’ John Spotted Elk dotes on her too.”

  True moved his pipe from his mouth and said quietly, “Shet up, Juicy.”

  “Harrumpt! Now just why’d ya go an’ say that? Oh, wal, hit don’t matter nohow.”

  A small silence followed. Juicy was uncomfortable. He knew he had said something he shouldn’t have, but he didn’t know exactly what.

  Sloan got up and took Orah Delle from Cherish’s arms.

  “This has been an exciting day for this little girl. Come, Cherish, and I’ll show you where to find her things.”

  Together they undressed the child. Sloan brought out a bag-like garment with a drawstring at the top and bottom and slits at the sides for the baby’s arms.

  “The slave woman made this. It keeps her real warm.”

  Cherish held the sleeping child up while Sloan slipped the garment over her head.

  “What do you do about—?” Cherish fumbled for the right word. “You don’t take her outside for—?”

  “No.” Sloan opened the door on the washstand and brought out a large china chamberpot. “Both of you use this. It can be emptied in the morning.” He went to one of the bunks and punched the mattress with his hand. “True said he put a feather tick on this bunk and there are plenty of covers. I’ll see to the fire.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well . . . goodnight.”

  “Night, Sloan.”

  Cherish didn’t move. Sloan hesitated a second or two, then walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Cherish heard the chair creak as he lowered his weight into it. She heard his voice as the three men resumed their conversation.

  She sat down on the edge of the bunk, suddenly filled with anguish. So this was the way it was going to be. Never again would he take her in his arms and hold her and kiss her. Perhaps he loved the Indian girl, Minnie Dove. Perhaps he wished that what had occurred between them on the trail hadn’t happened.

  She lifted Orah Delle and sat her on the chamber pot. The child whimpered sleepily when her bare flesh met the cold china rim, but she discharged water when she was told. Cherish put her back into the bed and tucked the covers around her. She stood back and looked down at her for a long moment, wishing fervently that she were really her child . . . and Sloan’s.

  The fire lit the room with a faint glow when Cherish blew out the candle. She removed the skewers from her hair and carefully placed them on the walnut chest. She slipped out of her dress and, not bothering to braid her hair, crawled into the bunk. All her life she had heard about sleeping on a feather tick, about how they were soft as a pi
llow and that a person sank down and down until you thought there was no bottom. Tonight, however, her heart was too heavy to appreciate the luxury. She pulled the covers up to her chin and lay wide-eyed, listening to the drone of voices from the next room.

  She slept . . . and dreamed that she was floating, swimming in the creek back home in Virginia. A man’s bronze arms matched the movements of her own as she sliced through the tranquil water. The man turned to her—it was Sloan. His white teeth flashed as he laughed with her. Soundless words came from his mouth as he rose and arched his muscled back to dive beneath the water. She hurried to follow him into the deep where they came together, arms and legs entwined, sinking deeper and deeper—

  She awakened. Sloan’s face was close to her own. She blinked and moved her head, thinking the vision would vanish. But he was still there. His lips hovered over hers, whispering.

  “Is there room for me, love?”

  With a soft welcoming cry she reached up to draw him down to her, her heart flooding her body with warm gladness.

  “Oh, Sloan. I’m glad you came!”

  “I couldn’t stay away.” He lifted the covers, slid in beside her and gathered her to him. “I lay thinking about you . . . wanting you,” he whispered before finding her lips and kissing her with gentle persistence.

  “I wanted you to come—”

  “Did you, love? Did you?” He found her lips again, moving over them slowly, touching them with his tongue. “Are you all right? Are you rested enough? I can just hold you—” His hands moved on her, the shift was swept away and there was nothing between them.

  “Love me. Love me like you did that night I was so cold.”

  “I will, love. I will. This time it won’t hurt you. I promise.”

  “It was a wonderful sweet hurt,” she whispered against his mouth.

  “You sweet woman—”

  Their lips met and met again, each kiss sweeter than the one before. His arms curled around her, his hand caressed downward along her spine to press her hips closer to his. His breath was a warm tickling in the curve of her neck. His lips touched there, then moved back to her lips again . . . tasting the softness, the sweetness, playing, warming, rousing her until her arms crept about his neck. She caught her breath as a wild flooding ache shot to the center of her being. As wonderful as the kisses were, she felt an urgency for more.

  Sloan moved his hard, demanding body over her soft yielding one. He entered her gently, moving slowly at first, then faster and faster with a heat that melted them into one. Cherish clung to him, feeling as if she were in another world. Gradually she came to feel like a child on a swing going up and up . . . higher and higher.

  Her need was as great as his, their passion full-grown, overwhelming. He filled her body, her heart and mind. He was there to stay; there would never be room for another. Rational thought slid away and they fell into the warm elusive pit of ecstasy.

  They lay in silence. She ran a hand down his back when he moved to lie at her side. He buried his face in her hair. Her body nestled against him, a warm soft thigh resting casually between his legs, one arm flung out across his chest. She stirred sleepily as his hand began to caress the small of her back. Lazily she stretched, like a contented kitten. A throaty purr escaped her.

  Sloan laughed. “You liked that?”

  She purred again and rolled her head back to look into the smiling gray eyes.

  “I’m not supposed to, am I?”

  “Ah, sweet. Of course you are. God didn’t mean for just the male to enjoy the mating.”

  She pulled his head to her breast. In the flickering firelight his hair shone with the sheen of black satin against her white skin. Her hair spread out across him in shimmering molten waves.

  “I was afraid.” She hurried on before she lost her courage. “I was afraid you’d not want me again. I thought that what happened before was just . . .”

  “Just what?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Animal lust? No, sweet thing,” he whispered. “It was more than that. Much more.”

  “I hoped that it was.” Her voice trembled a bit.

  He rolled her onto him and with strong fingers worked the muscles in her back.

  “Are you still afraid?”

  “No,” she said simply.

  But even as she lay in his arms, warm and contented, she felt a recurring stir of old uneasiness. There was still so much she didn’t know about him. So much she would have liked to ask but didn’t dare. She wondered about Orah Delle, who looked so like him, and about the child’s mother, Ada, who had abandoned her. Above all, she wondered about the Indian girl, Minnie Dove, who loved Sloan too.

  * * *

  The time sped past.

  For three days now the sun had shone brightly, melting the snow left over from the blizzard.

  Cherish and Orah Delle sat on a tree stump and watched the men work. True and Juicy were building their own cabin. They had felled the trees and notched the logs during the summer. The work on the construction had been slow while Sloan was away because one of them was always with the child. But the work now was progressing faster with the three of them working. The walls had gone up in two days. The roof and fireplace were taking longer. The men worked from first light until dark, racing to finish while the good weather held.

  The new cabin would be the sixth structure in the small settlement. As she sat watching the men work, Cherish could not keep her eyes from straying to a boarded-up cabin nearby. It was a larger version of the one that Sloan lived in. Both were weathered and had rock fireplaces at either end, but rough shutters covered the windows of one while glass windows in the other shone in the sunlight.

  The cabins were set about a hundred yards back in the timber above the river where it turned to form a deep bend. There in the cradle of the horseshoe bend the little settlement was a small touch of civilization in the wilderness. Between and behind the two cabins was a smokehouse and beyond that a barn that housed the cow. The other building was a lodge the Shawnee used from time to time, Sloan had told her. Attached to this structure was a storehouse, which held supplies not only for this settlement, but for others farther downriver.

  On the highest piece of ground in the bend, overlooking the river and inside a split-railed enclosure, Sloan’s brother was buried. Cherish had walked up there one afternoon while Orah Delle was napping. A smooth thick slab of wood marked the grave. The words, neatly carved, read simply:

  SLATER BUCHANAN CARROLL

  1752–1777

  25 YEARS OLD

  Father of Orah Delle Carroll

  Cherish wanted to weep for the young man, already ill, whose young wife had run away and left him with a wee babe. She would have liked to ask Sloan more about him, but he hadn’t mentioned his brother again after telling her he was Orah Delle’s father. The only time she had mentioned the cabin, she immediately wished she hadn’t. She had wondered aloud why True and Juicy couldn’t use it.

  Sloan’s face had gone still. He had said, “Why should they? It isn’t theirs,” and walked away, leaving her shaken.

  The land in the river bend was referred to by True and Juicy as Carrolltown, but True explained to her that the land was owned by Sloan, bought with money he received from the sale of the family plantation left to him and his brother when their father died. Sloan had no intention of starting a settlement such as Boonesborough, or Harrodsburg, and encouraging other settlers to come. True said, in fact, that the Shawnee had sold him the land with the understanding—and with the assurance that they would be allowed to retain their lodge and continue hunting on their old hunting grounds. Sloan considered it a good bargain, because the Shawnee were good neighbors. They also kept other marauding Indians away, providing better protection than a fort.

  Several weeks had passed since Sloan had come staggering out of the blizzard with the half-frozen girl in his arms. They had been weeks of adjustment to a whole new way of life for Cherish.

  At first Cherish felt almost like an intru
der. She took stock of the contents of the wardrobe and the walnut chest in the bedroom. Her fingers itched to sew on the lengths of fabric she found in the drawers and to knit the fine wool yarns. She spent two days cleaning the room thoroughly. Evenings, before the fire, she mended the child’s clothing. Her own dress was worn and she longed to make another, but for the time being, it would have to do. Her only footwear was the moccasins Sloan had made on the trail.

  One evening Juicy brought out a skin of soft leather, and two evenings later he slipped a pair of dainty slippers on her feet. She was so delighted she kissed him soundly on the cheek. To Sloan’s delight, Juicy, for once, was speechless.

  When the weather settled and the men began working outside all day, Cherish tackled the job of cleaning the big room. She found a large wooden basin turned upside down under the work table, carried it to the fireplace and filled it with hot water from the teakettle. By rubbing a chunk of hard lye soap between her hands, she built up a light foam, then laid the soap aside, for she had been taught never to rest it in a pool of its own drippings, or it would melt away wastefully.

  First she carefully washed and dried all the tableware they had not previously used, handling the pewter plates, cups, and eating utensils lovingly. She scrubbed the dusty shelves and replaced the tableware, then washed the trestle table. When it was dry she rubbed beeswax into the wood and polished it until it shone.

  True had taken her into the root cellar a few mornings after she arrived. She found potatoes, carrots, cabbage, pumpkins and sacks of corn there ready for grinding. There was a keg of molasses and several more of rum, plus some jugs of corn liquor she suspected were for Juicy’s use. On a shelf in the coolest part of the cellar were crocks where the milk and eggs Sloan had bought from a passing freighter were stored. Cherish had never seen so much food in one place, and True told her there were slabs of bacon, sides of venison, smoked turkeys, even bear meat in the smokehouse.