She tugged her wrist out of Ned’s grasp and jumped easily out of the open carriage. Ned surprised her by taking her into his embrace and holding her close. Taylor’s hurt and anger toward him evaporated. She realized she was clinging as tightly to him as he was to her. Barely able to stand this silent leave-taking, she pulled away, turning to Tom and John. In turn, they hugged her briefly and gave her their good-byes and best wishes. She thanked them and turned to walk away.
Not once did she look back.
* * *
Taylor was deep in the forest. Thick, low-hanging branches pulled at her clothing as she brushed by. The day’s light waned, casting her in dark shadows. Carefully, aware of every sound and listening for the pounding of horses’ hooves and the cry of men’s voices, Taylor pushed her way homeward … for the last time. She knew in her heart that she would not see this land again. She had lived her life in such a way that now made it impossible for her to stay.
But she was no longer without a plan. She would live in the white man’s world … where Indian laws or crimes were not recognized. So, once she left the Nation, and because Cherokee law was not respected or upheld by the United States government, Taylor knew she would be deemed guiltless of any crime. Every Cherokee knew that while the white lawmen frequently made forays into the Nation to hunt for white criminals, the Indian deputies could not pursue an Indian criminal onto white land. Nor could the Indian deputies arrest a white criminal for mischief on Indian land.
Yes, the white man’s dismissal of Indian law was unfair, at the very least. There was no doubting that. But now Taylor intended to use that same imbalance to her advantage. She wouldn’t be the first Indian to do so, either. But still, she could hardly believe it. Her, Taylor Christie James, living in the white world. Right now—and she hated the realization—the white man and his ways were her saviors. For years, in school and because of the missionaries who came into the Nation, she’d been taught the white language and customs and manners. Her mother had insisted on it, saying that the white ways were the ways of the future … of Taylor’s future. So Taylor knew their religion, how they dressed, and the way they looked at the world.
Still, all of their ways seemed strange and foreign to her. But thanks to her father’s blood—this was the first time she’d ever been thankful for being half-white—she had blue eyes and much lighter skin than the full-bloods. Two months in a prison cell certainly hadn’t tanned her skin any darker, either. In short, she could pass for white. Such a notion had Taylor shaking her head as she skirted a tree stump and avoided a broken branch underfoot. It was strange to think that only in the land of her father … a man she barely remembered, a man who’d abandoned her and her mother when Taylor was nine years old … would she not be a wanted woman. Only there could she regain her legal innocence and have a chance at life. Only there could she hope to outrun and, she hoped, outlive Rube’s curse.
In what seemed like only moments but was perhaps longer, given Taylor’s immersion into her troubling thoughts … especially those that kept reminding her of Monroe Hammer’s desertion and betrayal of her … darkness blanketed the earth. Pulling herself back to the moment, she stopped and looked up. Revealed to her through a break in the interwoven branches were the stars, twinkling pricks of light overhead. The night was cloudless, the moon full. The earth under her feet was dank and musty-smelling. The forest about her teemed with life. This was a land and a way of life she understood.
But it was no longer her land, or her way of life.
Allowing for no sentimentality or regrets at this late date, Taylor walked on. With the moon’s reflected light guiding her, she steadily picked her way through the tangling underbrush of the hickory forest also thick with oak and elm. She listened to every sound, pausing, heeding it, and then assuring herself, before she moved on, that what she heard were woodland noises and not the furtive movements of a posse. More than once, some small creature startled her by suddenly scurrying away from her advancing feet. An owl hooted, wanting to know who passed by. Taylor spared it only a glance.
Guided by unerring instinct as much as familiar habit—this terrain was her home ground, the earth of her childhood wanderings—Taylor stopped for nothing, pausing only to brush back a low-hanging branch here or to ford a stream there. She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and most of that meal she’d left untouched. Her belly complained now of its emptiness, but there were no berries or wild greens to be found for gathering. And she had neither the time nor the weapon to secure meat … and no desire to be detected because of the campfire she’d have to make to cook her kill. So, except for the occasional mouthful of clear and cold stream water that she drank from her cupped hands, she did without. It wasn’t the first time. Nor did she believe it would be the last.
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was seeing her mother and then leaving before she brought the law to the door and more trouble to her mother’s heart.
Finally, Taylor reached home. Stopping at the edge of the woods, with her mother’s cabin only a matter of feet away in the small clearing, with moonlight splashing it with the brightness of day, Taylor suspended emotion, not daring to give in to the giddy excitement she felt at being this close to home. What she wanted most to do was rush to the cabin and run inside and be with her mother. But instead, and wisely, she paid heed to what her senses were telling her.
Her eyes showed her nothing was moving outside and that a light burned inside … where a silhouette suddenly passed by the curtain-covered window. Taylor tensed, her mind processing what she’d just seen. Only one shadow. A woman’s. Her mother. Taylor exhaled the breath she’d been holding. As she listened now, her hearing detected no leaves rustling as they would if stealthily moving feet stirred them. No sounds that would come from men hiding outside, sounds like a sudden sniff or a low cough, came to her ears.
But then, and startling in the silence, carried the low whinny of a horse and its nervous stamping of a hoof. Taylor jerked in the direction of the sound—the horse corral behind the cabin—and realized it was only her horse she’d heard. Red Sky, a long-legged paint, had caught her scent. He stood at the fence, his ears pricked forward, his great dark eyes reflecting moonlight as he stared directly at her. A grin came to Taylor’s face.
Soon, my friend. Soon will we ride against the night and away from this place with its many memories, she told her horse in a silent communication. But then, she noticed something about Red Sky that had her grin fading. He was saddled and bridled already. Taylor knew her mother had to have done so. Because Taylor had trained Red Sky not to allow anyone but her or her mother to approach him, much less handle him.
So, why had her mother done this? Taylor looked from the horse to the cabin. Was it in anticipation of Taylor showing up and then making a quick getaway? Or was this a trap? Had her mother been forced, perhaps by deputies hiding inside with her, to saddle Red Sky only to make Taylor think what she just had? Did these deputies believe she would be foolish enough to not proceed with caution and get herself captured?
Taylor focused again on her surroundings and had to admit things certainly looked innocent and normal. Her nose told her that a wood fire was burning in the fireplace inside the cabin. In the moonlight, she saw the smoke curling above the stone chimney. No doubt her mother was cooking her supper. Taylor’s mouth watered. Her stomach growled its protest. But still she didn’t move. She remained pressed against the rough-barked trunk of a scrub oak tree … and waited a few moments longer, long enough for anyone who hadn’t yet made a telltale sound to do so.
Despite her grim alertness and acutely honed senses, Taylor’s next thought had her grinning. Perhaps the best evidence that no one was in hiding out here except for her was that she hadn’t yet tripped over some gunman. Not that she was arrogant enough to take anything away from the Cherokee deputies’ tracking skills, but hers were every bit as good. Well, except for that last time, when they’d caught her. But even then, it had only been by a fluke that they had. She reme
mbered that day well. Desperately dirty and aching from being on the run and sleeping in caves or simply on the ground, and while Monroe had gone to steal their supper from someone’s chicken yard, she’d finally succumbed to the need for cleanliness.
And so it had been that she’d been bathing in a stream when they’d caught her … naked and unarmed, her drying clothes and her weapon on the ground at their feet. Taylor burned now with remembered anger at the men’s crude jokes and catcalls, at their lusting looks as she’d emerged, chilled to the bone, from the cold water. Remembering their sudden silence at the picture she’d made, then the rough groping and handling of her they’d subjected her to on that day, now narrowed her eyes to slits. She knew in her heart that only because she’d given them no satisfaction, only because she’d shown no fear, no emotion at all, only because she’d stood tall and proud and silent, had she not come to a worse fate at their hands.
She believed that in the face of her stoic pride and her level stare, they’d abandoned their taunting of her and allowed her to dress. But perhaps their suddenly respectful behavior toward her had more to do with her warning the men that there was no prison that could hold her, that she was Monroe Hammer’s woman, and that one day she’d be free—and when she was, she and Monroe would find every man who’d dared to put his hands on her, and they’d fix each of them in such a way that he’d never again have the desire to touch any woman … and have no reason to do so. Apparently they’d believed her, because they’d abandoned their game with her at that point.
Also on that day, she’d sworn silently to herself that once Monroe got her out, she’d never be taken unaware like that again. And now, here she was upholding that two-month-old pledge to herself. Of course, Monroe was nowhere around. Taylor tamped down the sudden emotions that assailed her. Hurt. Anger. Loss. Betrayal. No. He is dead. And he deserved nothing from her. Nothing.
At this point, tired of the waiting and watching, and equally tired of her thoughts, Taylor called herself certain that she and her mother would be alone for their reunion. Still, to remain safe, Taylor had to behave as if the worst had already happened, meaning Rube’s predicament had been discovered, since it was now past time for the supper tray to be brought up to the third floor. So, Taylor reasoned, only one of two things could have already happened. Either the deputies had been here and could still double back, hoping to catch her. Or they weren’t here yet but would soon show up. Either way, Taylor didn’t have long to say her final good-bye.
Knowing that, she made her move. Scurrying low to the ground and on a zigzag course, sticking to shadows when she could, she hurried to the side of the cabin. Edging along the rough bark of the cut logs that comprised the one-story house, she inched toward the covered front porch and lightly jumped up onto it. Sticking close to the wall, stepping around a wash-tub and butter churn, she felt for the door as she kept a lookout around her, trying to see everything at once and yet, she hoped, hopefully missing nothing.
Just then, the front door opened, startling the breath out of Taylor as she froze in place, her back against the wall, her heart thumping frantically. Into the shadowy, flickering light cast onto the porch by the cook fire stepped her mother. Tennie Nell Christie turned to Taylor, as if she’d known all along that she was there. She smiled, showing strong, white teeth. “It is OK, my daughter,” she said. “The deputies have gone. But they could return at any moment.”
Knee-weakening relief cascaded over Taylor’s nerves … relief that the deputies were gone and relief that the one opening the door had been her mother and not an armed lawman. When she could, Taylor pulled away from the wall. Then, as if she’d only stepped out a moment ago, perhaps to bring in firewood, as if she hadn’t been imprisoned for murder and wasn’t supposed to be hanged tomorrow, Taylor adopted a pose of bravado and wanted to know only one thing: “How did you know I was out here?”
Equally collected and calm–appearing, her mother shrugged as she stepped back, making way for Taylor to step inside ahead of her. “You make too much noise. I heard you.”
A scoffing sound erupted from Taylor. “I made no noise. You taught me better than that.”
“I would have said so, too. And yet, here I am and I have caught you. You are not yet better than your teacher.”
Grinning, Taylor continued to feign nonchalance as she entered the cabin. But then she turned, and with her mother’s back to her as she closed and latched the door behind them, Taylor dropped her pose and filled her eyes and her heart with the sight of this most beloved of women to her. With mounting dismay, with her hands fisting at her sides, and laying the blame squarely at her own feet, Taylor noted that her mother was thinner, that her clothes seemed to hang on her. And her hair … when had it become this gray?
Just then her mother pivoted, swirling her long skirt about her legs, as she faced Taylor. No evidence of strong emotion marred her mother’s countenance. To her, such displays were unseemly. Tennie Nell, a striking woman of high cheekbones and dark flashing eyes, with her dark gray-streaked hair braided, chuckled and confessed. “What you said outside is true—you made no noise. It was Red Sky who announced your presence with his whinny. I have saddled him and, as you taught him, he awaits you at the gate.”
Taylor smiled. She’d been right. Her mother had anticipated her arrival. Further evidence was the already packed saddlebags and the neatly tied bedroll that rested against the wall by the door. Taylor’s gaze went to the items and then back to her mother’s face. Silence fell between them, sobering them both. Taylor pulled in a long breath, feeling the emotion-filled tightness in her chest as she did.
She watched her mother’s gaze roving over her figure. Taylor could see a glint in her dark eyes. Tears? Or the reflection of the glowing fire she faced? “They have not fed you well in their prison of stone,” Tennie Nell said abruptly, angrily. “You are thin, like the reeds along the water’s edge. I have prepared food you can take with you. It is already packed and is enough to keep you for a few days. But right now you can have some bread and some chicken. It will hold you until you stop later.”
With that, and not awaiting Taylor’s answer, Tennie Nell brushed by her daughter, not pausing to touch her in any way. Aching with knowing this might be the last time she ever saw her mother, Taylor turned to watch her heading for the rough-hewn dining table by the fire. Atop it, in chipped china bowls and a small woven basket, was the food she’d mentioned.
Feeling lost and alone, like an abandoned child, Taylor watched her mother’s precise movements, her rigid posture, as she gathered up the meal. Taylor was no longer sure she could swallow the food. With her hands fisted at her sides, with her love for her mother an unspoken and aching lump in her throat, Taylor longed only for her touch. She wanted no sustenance other than that of the soul … the comfort of her mother’s arms around her. She wanted only to be held, to have her hair stroked, and to hear again the soft murmuring words of reassurance she remembered from her childhood.
But that could not be, Taylor feared, because she had brought too much hurt and shame into this house to ask now for forgiveness. This then, to stand alone and yearning, untouched and unforgiven, was her sentence.
Such thoughts as these kept Taylor standing where she’d been since entering her mother’s house. She looked around her. This cabin, this warm and tidy place, was no longer her home. She didn’t belong here. This was the worst of all fates. To be inside the home but outside the loving circle of its warm shelter. Maybe forever. Still, not one sound or protest issued from Taylor. Her mother’s silence matched hers. Tennie Nell was not a hard or unfeeling woman. Taylor never thought of her mother’s behavior in those ways. Because she knew this reticence, this holding back, this bone-deep aching sense of loss that kept them from saying or showing anything they felt, was their way, the Cherokee way.
These were the blank faces The People turned to the white man—and to each other when emotions threatened to overwhelm. Tears and wailing were signs of weakness, a loss of fa
ce and pride. Taylor knew all that. And yet she had almost succumbed to it with the news about Monroe, a man she now realized she was beginning to hate. Still, she prided herself on her tough hide, on her inscrutable countenance, her unrelenting disdain. Except where her mother was concerned. And so, nothing had ever hurt so much in Taylor’s life as did this distance between them.
Perhaps, then, it would be best if she gathered what her mother had already packed and just left. Taylor felt as wooden as the floor under her feet, but she forced herself into motion. With her first step, her boots made a scuffing sound.
Her mother whirled around. Tears streaked her face. She dropped the tin plate she’d been holding onto the tabletop and ran toward Taylor, her arms outstretched. “My child,” she sobbed. “My heart, my love, my baby. I am so afraid for you.”
Taylor didn’t recall moving in turn, but there she was, clutching her mother into her embrace, holding her close in her arms as Tennie Nell cried for her only child—an outlaw half-breed quicker with a knife and a gun and a cutting word than any warrior of old. Braver and more dangerous, perhaps more reckless. “Don’t cry for me, Mother,” Taylor said softly, fighting tears she refused to shed. “I have brought you nothing but pain. I am an unworthy daughter, not deserving of your sorrow. Do not mourn the loss of such a one as me.”
Tennie Nell Christie pulled back, her cheeks wet with tears, her expression a mask of anger. With an open hand, she slapped Taylor full across the face. Taylor cried out as her head snapped to one side. Her mother grabbed a handful of Taylor’s long black hair and held it tightly, forcing Taylor to look down into her face. “I will mourn you. I do mourn you. For surely even now you are as lost to me as you would have been tomorrow if the council had wrongly hanged you. I know you did not kill that man for his horse. And I know that Monroe Hammer is dead. I am glad. I spit on his grave. But I will cry for you, child of my heart, until the day I die. That is how much I love you. Always remember that.”
Wild Flower Page 3