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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Cheryl Anne Porter
Passionate Praise for the Novels of Cheryl Anne Porter
Copyright
Combine class and intelligence with elegance and grace—and you’d have Glenda Howard, my editor. Glenda, you’re a joy to work with.
Chapter One
The imposing National Penitentiary, hunkering with a glaring facade, stared blindly through unseeing eyes of iron-barred windows toward Tahlequah, the capital of the thriving Cherokee Nation in the Oklahoma Territory. Stone-built and stone-solid, its bruised, grayish-white colors those of a gathering storm. Three stories tall and square. Impenetrable, impregnable, isolated deep in the heart of the hilly and wooded land. Law-abiding red-skinned citizens skirted the edifice. And commerce rightly conducted its daily business at a discreet distance.
At the end of the Civil War, with the return of men hardened by fighting brother-against-brother, the tribal council had possessed the foresight to expect trouble. A whole lot of trouble. While most Cherokee men returned to peaceful lives, there were those not so willing to forgive their enemies. And even less willing to forfeit their killing ways. Sadly, the council had been proven correct in their fears. And so, with the small regional prisons full and a greater deterrent to lawless ways needed, the fathers had approved the prison. Construction was begun, and it was completed two years ago, in 1874.
The forbidding jail now housed the most dangerous and hardened prisoners in the Nation. Out back of the imposing structure, in a stark courtyard, sat a constant and hulking reminder to those who would break Cherokee law. A permanent scaffolding for the rapid carrying out of a sentence of hanging. With the new prison and its history of no successful escape attempts, there was no contingency, no type of prisoner, the council hadn’t anticipated.
Until now, and except for this prisoner.
Isolated in a narrow cell on the otherwise empty third floor of the jail was the tribe’s worst nightmare. A murderer and a thief. Unrepentant. Mocking. Wild. A black-haired, blue-eyed half-breed devil. Scornful of Indian ways and laws. The worst kind of outlaw. A bad seed in whose veins flowed the tainted blood of a white father. Indeed, a list of crimes as long as a man’s arm accompanied the raging twenty-year life of this Cherokee.
Still, sadness flowed like blood throughout the Nation. This one lost soul tried theirs. Even so, the community was divided in their loyalties. This prisoner inspired either much love in The People’s hearts or hatred of the worst kind. No one in the Nation, it seemed, had been allowed to remain lukewarm. A citizen was either for or against. But in the end, one truth shouted to be heard. No one had been able to redeem this lost soul, despite relentless religious training. And despite the best schooling in the Nation, in an education system the envy of surrounding tribes and white communities alike.
Still, at the risk of the peace that usually reigned throughout the wooded land, and with no other choice given them by law, with the evidence against the prisoner as plain as the mocking call of the blue jay, the uncomfortable verdict had been pronounced. Guilty of murder. Two months ago, the sentence of hanging had been handed down. But no one had wanted it carried out, rapidly or otherwise. There had been protests and appeals made, all of them futile. Principal Chief Thompson and his Executive Council of the sovereign Cherokee Nation, men equivalent in power and stature to the neighboring United States President and its Senators, and bound by the dictates of very specific laws, had finally ruled. No pardon would, or could, be forthcoming. No exceptions, no precedents, would be made.
Tomorrow, then, there would be a hanging. This act would not only mar what promised to be a beautiful spring day, but it would also sit heavily on The People’s consciences. But with no choices left, the Cherokee Nation carried out its daily business on this, the late afternoon of the day before. Still, in the halls and offices of the Cherokee capitol building, no one seemed to want to look anyone else in the eye. They didn’t say it, either, but the wish was palpable. Could no one do anything to save them from having to carry out this death sentence … against a young woman?
* * *
Not too far away from the capitol building, across dusty streets and around several city blocks, up on the third floor of the penitentiary, a Cherokee deputy sheriff tapped with his heavy key ring on the iron bars of the cell door. He spoke in his native tongue to the lone and condemned prisoner housed on this floor: “Taylor, get yourself up. Someone is here to see you.”
Taylor Christie James, notorious half-breed outlaw, horse thief, and killer of men, abruptly sat up on her narrow cot that was pushed up against a wall on one side of the cell. Her heart raced. Could this visitor be Monroe Hammer—finally? Taylor’s nerves were raw with anticipation, even though, by pretending to nap, she’d given no outward sign of being the least bit concerned with her imminent hanging tomorrow. This better be him, came the angry thought that capped two months of dashed hopes and fearful doubt every time a visitor for her hadn’t turned out to be him.
After all, it was because of her love for Monroe and her loyalty to him that she was in here. She hadn’t talked. She’d stuck to their story. She’d gone to trial and then to jail for him. He’d told her not to despair or to doubt. He would get her out, one way or another, so they could be together. They would go far away from here, and they would be free. Taylor wanted—needed—to believe this visitor here for her was him. Because she’d sure as hell tired of the long line of preachers and tribal notables who’d all evidently felt a need to minister to her today. Angry … and scared … that none of the visitors so far had been who she’d so desperately hoped they’d be, she’d sent them all packing in short order with either derisive laughter or hard and disrespectful words.
This better be him. It was the single chant in her mind today. Taylor swung her legs over the cot’s side and gripped the thin mattress. She stared down at her stocking feet. Through the black-velvet waterfall of her long hair, which hid her face from her guard, Taylor allowed herself a grin that said she still believed, even at this late hour, that Monroe Hammer would come for her. If she was right, then all hell was getting ready to break loose. Not deigning to look the guard’s way—she didn’t figure Rube had changed any in the past few hours since he’d belatedly remembered to clear away her lunch tray—she rubbed at her eyes and shoved her hair back over her shoulders.
Stretching her limbs, with her heart pounding against her ribs but her voice purposefully no more than a bored yawn, she finally glanced over at the guard and spoke in her native Cherokee. “Who’s here to see me, Rube? Another preacher wanting me to repent of my sins so I can die with a clear conscience? Or so The People can kill me with a clear conscience is more like i
t. Tell him to go away and inflict his fear of hellfire and brimstone on someone who isn’t already destined to feel it tomorrow. Tell him I don’t want to see him.”
“It is not a matter of want. They are here, and they will see you.”
They? Taylor shrugged, keeping to herself the prick of worry that she might be wrong after all. She was expecting only one man—Monroe. Just then, a sudden spate of activity behind Rube captured her attention. Stepping into view and flanking her guard were three men. Three armed men. Taylor inhaled sharply, her eyes widening with alarm. Their faces were covered with bandannas, like white outlaws used. Then one of them slowly waggled his raised gun from side to side, as if trying to surreptitiously signal something to her. Taylor studied the man, noting details like his height, the way he stood, and his twinkling dark eyes. Finally, she recognized him—and fought her own reaction, afraid she’d give him away. He wasn’t who she’d hoped he would be—but this man would do. He was her heretofore law-abiding Uncle Ned. And he’d brought reinforcements.
With her heart fluttering with excitement, but again careful to keep any sign of recognition of these men off her face, Taylor swung her attention back to her guard, only now noting that his holster was empty. “Rube, you didn’t let a lynch mob in here to get me, did you?”
“No.” His answer was simple and serious, as always. “But these men, with their drawn guns, have made known their plans. They will take you with them. This thing they are doing is wrong, Taylor Christie James—just as what you did was wrong.”
Taylor was bored with Rube’s continual sermonizing. “I shot a man who tried to steal my horse. But do you see that horse thief anywhere? No. Instead, it’s me who’s been sitting in this stinking jail with only you as company for the full two months it’s taken the High Sheriff and the Principal Chief finally to get their nerve up to hang a woman.”
Rube’s tanned and leathery face set in hard lines. When he spoke, his voice remained maddeningly patient and judgmental, like that of some Old Testament patriarch. “It was not easy for our council to decide to hang a woman, Taylor. You know this. But you also lie, my daughter. The horse was not yours. You and Monroe Hammer stole it. The man came to you, wanting to take back his property. And he was shot in his back. He is not here now because he committed no crime. And because he is dead from a bullet, as are three other men you killed before this last one. So tomorrow, as it has been decreed, you will hang for these offenses.”
“No, I won’t.” Mention of Monroe—as much as his not being here—inflamed Taylor’s anger. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Look around you, Rube. There are three men here with guns drawn that put the lie to your words. They say you are wrong. I won’t hang—not tomorrow or any other time.”
She nodded in her confederates’ direction, centering her attention on her uncle, Ned Christie, her mother’s much-younger brother and a tall young man of twenty-four already influential in tribal matters. While Taylor was thrilled and relieved to see him, she was still surprised. But maybe Monroe had sent them. That made sense, now that she thought about it. The guards were no doubt on the watch for Monroe today, so he’d sent these men in his stead. That was a good plan. But why Uncle Ned? He may be her only hope of not hanging tomorrow, but he was also a family man. It was said that one day he would be chosen to serve on the Executive Council of the Cherokee, a position that could lead to nomination for Principal Chief. But not after today—not if he got himself hanged for helping her to escape.
A rare moment of remorse assailed Taylor. She entertained the notion of telling him not to do this, not to risk everything for her, a soul already doomed. In fact, she opened her mouth to speak her mind—
But Ned waved some official-looking papers he held in his other hand. “Right here is your official pardon, Miss James, signed and sealed by Principal Chief Thompson himself. So, are you ready to go? Or do you like it so well in here that you prefer to stay and chat with your guard?”
Her official pardon? Hardly. Taylor tilted her head at a questioning angle. It was true. Ned was up to something here, something beyond her escape. Obviously any prisoner officially pardoned didn’t need a band of masked and armed men to escort her out of the prison. The papers were perhaps a forgery, meant to embarrass Principal Chief Thompson, a political rival Ned had never liked. That had to be it. Taylor shook her head and chuckled. Ned had his own plans. What became of him, then, was not on her head. All she knew was that, thanks to him, she was about to be a free woman.
With that realization galvanizing her into action, Taylor excitedly jumped up from her cot. Dressed in her usual shocking manner—a man’s shirt and buckskin trousers—she ran to the barred cell door that separated her from freedom. Clutching at two of the close-set cold bars, she pressed her face against them and, though whispering, carefully avoided saying her uncle’s name, just in case Rube overheard. “It is good to see you. I was afraid I would die here.”
Her uncle chuckled and traded glances with his two friends, both of them upon closer inspection known to Taylor, despite also having the lower halves of their faces covered. John Wolf and Tom Keen. They’d been children together, these two men and Taylor. The three of them had, in their summers, run the hills and forests and streams of the Nation together. And now, here they were. Even if, by all appearances and for all she knew at this point, Monroe Hammer had forgotten his lover, these men had not forgotten their friend. Taylor’s gaze slipped to their hands, noting that they still had their guns aimed at the unarmed Rube.
“Don’t harm him,” she heard herself commanding aloud. No one could have been more surprised than she was. Why should she care about the man who was a deputy sheriff, her ever-present guard and self-appointed spiritual tormentor? But still, for whatever reason, she did.… She cared.
Ned winked at her. “I see you’ve made friends here. But still, we figured we better come get you before the council can execute you tomorrow. Now, get your belongings, girl. We don’t have all afternoon.”
A sudden and exciting realization struck Taylor, sending a thrill of triumph streaking through her. This was a jailbreak. Had she dared laugh out loud, had she not been afraid of alerting others to the men’s illegal presence here, the sound would have been a mocking, incredulous one. Because no one had ever escaped, except through hanging, from the new jail. Until now. Until her. She would be the first … if everything went well.
Just then, her Uncle Ned urged Rube, a bowlegged and leathery-skinned full-blood, to unlock the cell door. Taylor stepped back. As the key clanked into the heavy lock, she ran for her boots. In an instant, she had them on and was pushing past Rube as he was shoved into the same cell that until this moment Taylor had thought would be her last resting place before the grave.
John shoved a long black coat and a veiled hat into her arms. “Put these on.” Confused, Taylor stared at the coat and hat. John added, “They’re your disguise. So we don’t have to shoot our way out of here. There’s not anybody in the Nation who doesn’t know your face, girl.”
Realizing the truth of that, Taylor nodded, sticking the hat on her head and tugging the coat on and buttoning it over her clothes. The heavy door clanged shut behind Rube. Just as Taylor had done a moment ago, Rube now clutched at the metal bars. “Don’t go, Taylor. This will only make things worse for you.”
That was absurd. Gone was her earlier spate of sympathy for the man. Taylor struck an attitude of defiance, propping her fisted hands against her hips. “Worse? How? You and your kind were going to hang me tomorrow, old man.”
Rube firmed his lips and shook his graying head. “You are our kind, too, Taylor. The white man’s blood in your veins does not change that. You are of The People. But if you leave like this, your life will never be your own. The deputies will hunt you down. And they will shoot you, Taylor—like an animal. And all for a thing you did not do.” Taylor’s breath caught—he couldn’t know that. He couldn’t. “Your escape will bring shame to your family,” Rube continued, his voice ringi
ng with conviction. “Tears will fall from your mother’s eyes to have had such a bad daughter as you.”
More afraid than she’d ever been in her life—Rube spoke as if the things he said had already happened—Taylor called her emotion anger and spoke harshly. “Hear my words, old man. I am not of The People. My white father brought shame to my mother. And he left her alone, with only me, her half-breed bastard daughter, to remind her of her broken heart. And I tell you another thing—no one is going to shoot me or hang me. Because they’re not going to catch me. Not ever again.” She began pulling the heavy veil over her face.
“Maybe not our deputies. And maybe not soon. But the day will come, Taylor,” the old man said cryptically. “You mark my words. The day will come for you. And you will have to make a choice. And that choice will be marked with the blood of those you love the most. Your life or theirs. The decision will be on your head and in your heart. This thing I have seen and it will come to pass.”
His words were tantamount to a curse. With the three men ominously silent behind her—a curse on her would extend to them for their helping her—Taylor could only stare at Rube as foreboding ate at her. Her throat felt as if an unseen hand were closing around it. She swallowed and raised her chin. “You are trying to scare me, and you know nothing. I am not afraid.”
But her voice, lacking her earlier conviction, put the lie to her words. She was afraid, and she did believe him.
“I speak the truth,” Rube countered. “I know the old ways, Taylor. And I talk with the spirits of the ancient ones. They have said this thing will be so.”
Just then, her uncle pushed past her. “I’ve heard enough.” Into the cell with Rube he threw the papers he’d brought with them. Like injured birds with broken wings, the papers fluttered helplessly and fell to the floor. “You keep your words to yourself, old man. Those are Miss James’s papers. They bear the Principal Chief’s signature. Only because you refuse to carry out our chief’s orders—”
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