Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  That is, until Bentley appeared in the doorway, bowing all around. “Excuse me, Mr. Talbott, Mrs. Talbott, and Miss … uh, Fawn.” Obviously Miss Fawn hadn’t been the only eavesdropper in the hallway. Grey raised an eyebrow, but the butler, who now faced his employer, maintained an inscrutable countenance. “I’ve only just put Mr. Charles James in the library, sir. He is in a state of acute distress, and says he has a matter of some urgency and delicacy he must discuss with you in private. What shall I tell him, sir?”

  “Tell him?” Grey was certain he would explode into a thousand pieces. For as long as he lived he would kick himself soundly in the seat of the pants for ever stopping Miss James from announcing herself to her father last evening. “Tell Mr. James that I seem to have strayed into a French farce, Bentley. And that as soon as I can separate the players one from another, I’ll be right with him.”

  Bentley’s eyes rounded. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Oh, for the—tell him to have a drink. A stiff one. And that I’ll be right there. Tell him to pour me one, too.”

  * * *

  Her father was here. Taylor’s breath caught, her heart felt squeezed into her chest. Surprising her was the realization that she didn’t want to see him. Not this minute. Not this way. Not with Mr. Talbott and his disapproving mother watching. Abruptly, before anyone else could move, as Bentley the man-bird turned and left the room, Taylor did the same thing. She marched out behind him, her spirit guide and protector.

  Following her was Mrs. Talbott’s plaintive cry of, “Grey, what is going on?” And his response of, “Stay where you are, Mother. Please. I’ll be right back.”

  Behind Taylor, a door closed. In the next heartbeat, her arm was grabbed. She jerked her gaze up. Mr. Talbott had a hold of her. “Oh no, you don’t. Not just yet. Not until I know what is upsetting Charles.”

  While Bentley proceeded on his mission across the hall, Mr. Talbott abruptly turned her to the right. He walked her toward the long hallway that paralleled the staircase to the second floor and led—she knew from her entrance through it last night—out to the coach yard. Taylor made a darting look over her shoulder. The man-bird Bentley opened the door, disappearing inside the room … where her father was.

  Taylor looked up at her tormentor. “Where are you taking me?”

  Mr. Talbott stopped, looking suddenly lost. “Actually, I don’t have the foggiest idea, Taylor.”

  He’d called her Taylor. Momentary surprise quieted her. She’d given no such permission. But at the moment, his familiar use of her name was a distant concern. Too much else here was wrong. Not giving him the benefit of her thinking, not telling him that she had no wish to confront her father right now, she made a simple announcement. “I wish to see Red Sky.”

  Mr. Talbott bent his head down to her, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon? You want to see a red sky? As in a sunset?”

  Such nearness to him had Taylor swallowing and hating her weakness toward him. His clean and masculine scent was not the least bit unpleasant. That unsettled her and had her hissing, “No. My horse. His name is Red Sky. I wish to see him—unless you have had him taken away as you did my clothes.”

  Mr. Talbott managed to look sheepish, but his expression cleared. “Oh. Your horse. No, I haven’t had anything done to him. He’s out in the barn, and I’m sure he’s fine. Go see him. In fact, stay out there until I come for you. Will you do that, Taylor?”

  That was twice. She exhaled angrily. “I tell you this now—you do not have my permission to call me Taylor. And I will not go by the name of Spotted Fawn.” Taylor wrenched her arm from his grasp. “I will go now to see my horse. And I will stay there or come back inside as I see fit, and not as you say. I may choose to ride him away from here, from this house of crazy people. I was wrong to come here. I do not belong.”

  With that, and giving him no chance to reply, she spun on her heel and started toward the back door. Expecting any moment to be stopped, she stuck her hand in her pocket, fumbling to loosen her—

  “Tay—I mean, Miss James? Wait.”

  She pivoted around to face Mr. Talbott. This time her knife, which she had sheathed in a deep pocket of the skirt, was in her hand. She held it up threateningly, making sure he saw it. “Yes?”

  He jerked back as if he’d been slapped. His breath left him in a hiss. “Damnation.” He divided his attention between her and her blade. Then his dark eyes met hers … and held. “Don’t leave. Please. I don’t know how I know it, but I do know that you belong here … Taylor. You do.”

  Taylor pulled herself up to her full height and, with sure movements that didn’t require her looking away from him, deftly sheathed and pocketed her knife. “I belong nowhere.” Then, for some reason, and not quite sure she wasn’t trying to convince only him, she added, “And to no man.”

  Again she turned her back to him and pushed on for the few steps it took her to reach the back door. Her booted feet on the hardwood floor made a final statement of each step. Grabbing the doorknob as if it were someone’s neck, she wrenched it hard and opened the door. She crossed the threshold and found her feet on crunchy gravel and her senses assailed by warm spring air, ample sunshine, and chirping birds. With no small amount of relief and sense of freedom, she inhaled gratefully of the fresh air, just as she’d done when she’d left the penitentiary weeks ago.

  But before she could close the door, something compelled her to look back inside, down the hall she’d just traveled. Mr. Talbott was not there. The space where he’d stood was empty, as if he’d simply vanished. Taylor ignored the disappointment that ate at her, focusing instead on his absence itself. Was he also magical, as was her man-bird? Because he hadn’t had time, she didn’t believe, to get back to the library door and go inside before she’d looked just now.

  Could it be that Mr. Talbott was also a spirit creature, here to guide her on her way, here to intercede for her, instead of to interfere with her? Was he her sign that her old guard Rube had told her to watch for? Standing there, staring down the hall’s empty length, with her hand still on the doorknob, Taylor entertained those questions, seeking answers. But only another question came to her. Could it be that she simply wanted it to be true, for Mr. Talbott to be her guide?

  Taylor shook her head in an emphatic no to herself. It wasn’t true. He was a rude white man who didn’t know how to mind his own business and who felt he knew better than she did how to attend to her business. And that was all. Taylor instantly felt better and made a motion to close the door.

  Just as she did, someone stepped into view at the other end of the hall. Taylor’s breath caught, her heart picked up its rhythm. But it wasn’t whom she’d thought … Mr. Talbott. Nor was it the other man, a virtual stranger to her but one she felt certain she would nevertheless recognize … her father. It wasn’t even Bentley. Instead, it was a woman. Facing her was Mrs. Talbott. The elegant older woman … slender, not as tall as Taylor, with her hands held in front of her at waist level … fixed her gaze on Taylor. She had no need of words. Taylor believed the other woman’s icy expression spoke the words of hate for Taylor’s kind in her heart.

  An aching hurt centered itself deep in Taylor’s chest. Would it ever, in her life, be any different? With her lips threatening to tremble, Taylor managed to get her chin up a proud notch. Then, not looking away from the woman, Taylor closed the door in the face of this new enemy.

  Chapter Seven

  The horse barn cleared unceremoniously of men as Taylor entered through its opened double doors. Somehow, their open fear of her restored her equilibrium a bit. It was easier to live life being feared than it was being rejected. Her steps as sure as her confining skirt would allow, and holding it up to keep the hem from sweeping through the dirt and the hay, she looked this way and that. Her horse was nowhere to be seen in any of the stalls she passed. Taylor finally stopped and called out a word in Cherokee. Red Sky immediately responded with a loud whinny. Taylor looked in the direction
of the sound. Off to her left, around that corner there. Thus directed, and enjoying the familiar scent of horse, hay, manure, and leather tack, Taylor made her unerring way toward her fleet and long-legged steed.

  In only another moment, she was standing outside the stall and staring in over the closed gate at her horse … and the owl-eyed and staring face of the boy from last night. Taylor searched her memory for his name, finally coming up with it. “Calvin,” she said into the quiet broken only by the occasional stamp of a hoof or whinny of a horse elsewhere inside the barn.

  “Y-yes, ma’am?” the boy responded, his voice breaking on the words. Then, as if he couldn’t stop himself, he spilled his every thought. “Your horse is doing just fine, ma’am. He ate good today. And he rested quiet last night. I know because I slept in here. Didn’t want him to have to kill somebody because he didn’t know him. I was just brushing him down some for you.” As if he needed proof, he held out a grooming brush for her to see. “His mane and tail was a tangled mess, but I got it all straightened out. I was fixing to walk him around some outside, just exercise him a bit in the fresh air. But now that you’re out here and if you’d rather do it, then I suppose that’s … what … you should do, I expect.” He finally ran out of words.

  Taylor didn’t say anything. Adopting the impassive expression she usually showed the world, she looked the boy, the horse, and the stall over. They were clean and fresh, the horse and the stall. The boy was sweating and dusty. Everything was here. Saddle. Bridle. Saddle blanket. Her gaze lit on her saddlebags heaped in a corner. She would have thought that Mr. Talbott would have taken them, too. It amused Taylor that he’d taken them away from her. They contained nothing of a threat to anyone. A change of clothes, a bit of money, some personal items she’d needed on the way here.

  “Did you want something, ma’am?”

  Taylor met the boy’s gaze. She had no idea why she thought of him as a boy. He was bigger and taller than she, no more than a few years younger than her at most. He was broad-shouldered but gave the appearance that he hadn’t quite grown into his bones yet. He was respectful to her—out of fear of her, true. But respectful nonetheless. And he’d taken good care of Red Sky, better than she’d been able as she’d traveled here. She should thank him for that, for all he’d done. The very idea took her by surprise. Thank a white man? No. With no softening of her expression, she stared into the boy’s face. “Leave us.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Calvin hurriedly, clumsily set the brush on a narrow shelf inside the stall. It toppled off into the hay. He picked it up and put it back on the shelf. It toppled off again. With a hissing intake of breath, he bent over to retrieve it yet again.

  “Leave it.”

  Her words froze him in position, his big hand outstretched toward the fresh hay. Slowly, he straightened up and met her gaze. His tongue flicked out over his lips; he ran a hand over his sweating brow … and didn’t seem capable of moving.

  Usually Taylor gained satisfaction from such a response. She had expected to experience that now. But she hadn’t. She frowned, considering this red-haired stable boy. She made him nervous; that much was plain. She also made him feel unwelcome … unwanted … less than he was. Who better than her to know how that felt? The question, posed to herself, startled her. That she would see something of herself in a white boy was unthinkable. Was she losing her edge around his kind? Coming to think of them as people? She didn’t know, didn’t want to believe that. But still, she felt compelled to say something. She told herself that if she didn’t speak, the two of them would stand here until the sun went down, because he was clearly waiting for her to make the next move.

  So, quirking her mouth with self-disgust, and with every Cherokee drop of blood in her veins screaming against the very notion, Taylor spit out, “Thank you for your care of my horse. Red Sky looks better than I’ve ever seen him.”

  The boy Calvin blinked … and took a breath. He shifted about in the hay. He ducked his head the tiniest bit, an acknowledgment of her compliment. And then his chest swelled, as if with pride, and his face split into a wide grin. Surprising Taylor was how good it made her feel inside to make happy someone in a subservient position to her.

  “You’re mighty welcome, ma’am,” the boy chirped. “I tried to do my best for you. Well, for him, I suppose.”

  With that, Calvin set himself in motion, crossing the wide stall in only a few steps, opening the gate, and stepping out. He stood to one side, allowing Taylor to pass by him. “In you go, ma’am. Uh, mind your skirt there. The hay’s fresh and all, so you shouldn’t step in any—well, you know. Anyway, I got some other chores to do. But I’ll be close by. If you’ll just let me know when you’re done with your visit, I’ll finish his grooming.”

  Taylor was capable of expressing only so much gratitude in one day. She didn’t say thank you again. Neither did she smile. She simply nodded and walked past him into the stall, closed the gate, and watched him walk off. Then, holding her skirt up out of the hay, she picked her way over to Red Sky, who met her with a familiar nudge of welcome with his nose. Grinning now, completely happy in each passing moment, Taylor stroked the horse’s head and spoke softly to him in Cherokee.

  “You’re very familiar with that horse.”

  Taylor spun around. There stood Mrs. Talbott, her arms folded together atop the closed gate. She looked completely out of place here. Taylor’s heartbeat picked up. The white woman had obviously followed her. “That’s because he is mine,” she blurted.

  “I thought you might speak English.” There was a note of triumph in her voice.

  Taylor watched her warily. “I never said I did not. It was your son who did.”

  The older woman chuckled and shook her head. “Yes. My son. I also suppose your name isn’t … What did he say it was?”

  “Spotted Fawn.”

  “Is it?”

  Taylor shook her head but said nothing. She knew the other woman expected her to supply her real name. But Taylor had no intention of doing so. In the Cherokee tradition, it was rude to ask a person’s name. A person’s name was private, intimate. It was given only eventually and then out of a gesture of good will and friendship. Taylor figured this white woman would not know that. But beyond that, and bothering Taylor more right now, was why had Mr. Talbott told those lies about her to his mother? Did he perhaps not trust this woman who had given him life? If he didn’t, then could she? What would this woman do if she knew who Taylor really was? Comforted only by the weight of her knife in her pocket and Red Sky’s protective nearness to her, Taylor turned the conversation so that she, instead of Mrs. Talbott, could get answers. “Is Mr. Talbott’s … guest still here?”

  The older woman frowned. Then her expression cleared. “Oh, you mean Mr. James. I’m sorry. It’s just that Greyson has had so many guests today. Me. You. And now his friend. But I really have no idea if he is or isn’t still here. I would assume so, since he apparently was in some distress over something. I cannot imagine what.” Her expression became arch. “Why do you ask? Is it important for you to know?”

  A thrill of foreboding swept through Taylor. To her, standing there and knowing the secret of her identity, the other woman’s questions seemed barbed with extra meaning. So, very quickly, before Mrs. Talbott could draw any other conclusions, Taylor said, “No. It does not matter. Not to me.”

  “Of course not.” The older woman stared at Taylor for a moment, then sent her an inquisitive, yet unfriendly, look. “Forgive me, but I … Well, how shall I put this? I understand you were an, uhm, overnight guest here at my son’s?”

  She was fishing for information that, to Taylor’s point of view, was none of her business. Her only response was to say nothing, show nothing.

  Mrs. Talbott’s expression soured, as if she’d formed an opinion of Taylor on the strength of her silence. “I see. Well. Leave it to Greyson to do things the unconventional way.”

  Turning away from the woman’s judgmental coldness, Taylor stroked Red Sky u
nder his forelock. “I would not know.”

  “Oh, I think you do. I think you—your appearance and your presence here—provide ample evidence of just how unconventional my son can be.”

  Having an idea of the implied insult underlying the older woman’s words, Taylor resettled her attention on her, this time noting how much the son resembled his mother. The same dark brown hair and eyes. The same chin. The same proud bearing. But that didn’t stop her from challenging Mrs. Talbott to this time openly speak her mind. “Say what you mean. Unconventional how?”

  The woman’s face colored, and she huffed out her breath. “In every sense, young lady. I am merely trying to find out who you are and what you are to my son. As his mother, I believe I have the right to know.”

  “If your son believes as you do—that you have a right to know—he will then tell you. It is not my place.”

  “Well, this is just grand. It was bad enough to be awakened this morning by the city’s biggest gossip, a woman who cannot wait to entertain me, and no doubt the rest of St. Louis society, with this latest example of Greyson’s unthinking indiscretion—”

  “That word is not known to me.”

  Mrs. Talbott stared at Taylor, looking her up and down, as if trying to determine if Taylor was baiting her. She then made a show of taking in her surroundings, giving the appearance of only just now having realized she was standing in a horse barn. She wrinkled her nose but focused again on Taylor. “An indiscretion. Let me see. Something one does … or someone one aligns oneself with … to embarrass one’s family I suppose is the best definition.”

  Taylor’s unblinking stare did not change. But it had struck her that the woman had just neatly defined for Taylor her entire life. It was true. She’d lived it in such a manner as to do the most harm to those she loved. She had her reasons why. But how could it be that this woman’s son was apparently of the same sort? Why would he be? He had everything a man could ever want. Or did he? Taylor next asked herself why she would care what he had or didn’t have in his life. She had her own problems … one of which faced her now. Finally, she spoke. “Then, you think me an embarrassment? An indiscretion?”