Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  She then inhaled deeply of the air, holding its freshness in her lungs for as long as she could before exhaling and giving herself up to the sunset. All around her, the brilliant, cloudless western sky faded to the deepening shades of purples and reds that would precede the ritual death of day. Soon, all around her would be black. Dark black. And she would be alone. Taylor tried desperately not to give in to the despair that ate at her. She tried to tell herself that this, too, would pass. She would find answers. There would be solutions. And her life would go on. Still, it took an act of will for her to force her attention outward. She turned again, toward the east, and gazed on the marvels below.

  Impressive steamboats, an alien yet exciting sight to her, plied the river’s waters. Along its shores, docks and warehouses and scurrying men abounded. Carriages and wagons of every description passed one another on the hard-packed dirt roads along the waterway’s busy banks. Tall ships with sails of white sat at port, rocking gently in the water and the day’s shadows.

  Taylor was amazed at the sights … and somehow soothed. Moments and heartbeats passed. Thoughts and worries were suspended. She lost herself in the excitement that lay below her. She shook her head with the wonder of it all and even realized she was grinning, feeling a bit overwhelmed with the scurrying and busyness displayed below her, none of which had anything to do with her or her problems.

  But soon enough, her worries again overtook her thoughts. She stepped back from the bluff’s rocky edge and stood watching Red Sky doze. The poor animal was exhausted. It was her fault. She’d ridden around all day, not able to settle on what she should do next. In her wanderings and wonderings, she’d ended up here in the easternmost part of St. Louis. She’d been wrong to come here. She meant to St. Louis itself, not just this deserted bluff. She should have gone out West as she’d planned and not listened to her mother. This city her mother had sent her to was a place of dangerous secrets. And the people here whom she knew, and whom she loved, when they heard her name would not want her here.

  Still, with night falling, with hardly any money to her name, and hungry and tired, where could she go? To her father, who thought her dead, then alive, then hanged for murder? No, she couldn’t go to him. She didn’t want to go to him, she told herself. Not like this, and not after her reception by Greyson Talbott. All the disbelief, the harsh words, the loud voices. It would be no different with her father. Taylor pronounced herself just not up to that again today.

  Then, to Amanda? Taylor shook her head. That promised to be yet another scene, more emotion, many questions … and another possible rejection. Still, earlier that afternoon, after she’d stalked out of Greyson’s house, she had gone as far as getting directions from the stable boy Calvin to the home of Stanley and Camilla James, Amanda’s parents. Taylor had been surprised to find that, in a city this size, they lived in a grand house just around a few fashionable blocks from Greyson’s town house, which was not far from her father’s home. All these people, suddenly so important in her life, all lived close together … as if they’d been gathered for her convenience in finding them. But she felt it was more likely that the spirits had united them here against her in one city.

  Either way, she’d started on her way to Amanda’s earlier. In fact, Taylor had found the place. She’d sat her horse outside the wrought-iron gates for a long time, staring at the three-story whitewashed-brick house with many rooms. She recalled thinking at the time how the huge homes, this one and those she’d passed, were unfriendly, unapproachable, like the penitentiary where she’d spent two months. The high fences made of iron. The closed gates. The long uninviting walks up to the doors. The unseen people who lived behind the glass of the windows. These things said keep away. Taylor had thought all this, and then she had turned Red Sky’s head in the other direction, away from her childhood friend, toward the river and the anonymity it offered. Her thought at the time had been that Amanda had most likely changed from the girl Taylor remembered, anyway. Why wouldn’t she have? After all, Taylor knew herself not to be the laughing child full of mischief and play that Amanda had loved.

  Taylor knew she’d changed even more in the past day. And not for the better. She hated the hesitance that had crept like a thief into her heart. Only last night she had held no fear inside her soul. She’d been walking right up to the door of her father’s home, intending to announce herself to him, when Greyson Talbott had stopped her. And now, today, she was not capable of doing that. What now was stopping her from making herself known? She refused to accept that it was fear stopping her. No, it had more to do with old lies that had been told. Lies about Amanda being dead. And now her family here believed her to be dead. Why had these lies been necessary? Taylor thought back to her mother’s parting words, about being careful, about someone here who had reason to want her dead. Why?

  And what, she asked herself, did this person have to gain by her death? Was so much at stake that this enemy would kill her to keep alive the lies? Taylor could only imagine what Amanda and her family had been told over the years. She figured they, too, must have believed her already dead since her father had. But what else had he been told in that message he’d got today, besides her being a convicted murderer? And why had her own mother told her all these years that Amanda had died? Taylor had no answers. All she knew was that something horrible was behind all this.

  Something horrible. Her mother had known it to be true. She had sent Taylor here, but she had cautioned her. Against whom, though? Why hadn’t she told her who her enemy was? Perhaps Tennie Nell Christie did not know who it was herself. Taylor slumped, knowing only that there was danger here. She could taste it, feel it. She believed that if she listened hard enough, she would hear the whispering evil that seemed to follow her every footstep, that seemed to suck onto every breath she took. Unknown, unseen evil. Lurking. Waiting. Biding its time, watching for her to make a mistake.

  The horrible truth was that Taylor had a sinking feeling she’d already made the mistake this evil wanted her to make. And eating at her was the knowledge that she wasn’t quite sure what that mistake had been.

  Lost in such thoughts and holding her horse’s reins, Taylor had allowed herself to be tugged along absently by Red Sky. Awakened from his momentary doze, he had begun grazing, his strong teeth pulling at the grass. Taylor stopped, belatedly realizing how close they were to the woods … and how tight her chest felt. A sudden unreasoning fear assaulted her. It prickled her skin, raced her heart, and had her darting gaze searching the shadows all around her. Her hands tensed around the reins. She wished for the gun that Greyson Talbott had taken from her last night. Red Sky jerked his head up and stared at her. Taylor knew she’d communicated her fear to the horse. But he stared at her, not around them as if his keener senses picked up anything threatening.

  Taylor slumped, feeling silly and weak, like a frightened old woman. Had she expected a beast to jump out at them? Had she expected to see red glowing eyes, a skulking form drawing nearer?

  She told herself that such a beast would be easier to fight than the worries that sapped her strength from within. But the truth was, at this moment, nothing of this world threatened. Instead, her fright had come from within. That being so, she looked inside herself for its source. And found it easily enough. The truth—the horrible truth—was that with all the lies that had been told, no one had any reason to believe she was who she was. But worse than that, Taylor was beginning to wonder if she was who she believed herself to be. After all, too many people told her she didn’t exist. Could they all be wrong? Or was she?

  She shook her head. That was a crazy thought. She had always been Taylor Christie James. Always. Other people’s lies could not change that.

  Still, Taylor shook her head, wanting to dislodge the awful doubts from her mind. What she needed to be concentrating on, she berated herself, was reviewing all of her actions of the past day until she could know with certainty what mistake she might have made that had her so scared now. But in that same in
stant, as if it had awaited only an unclaimed second of her time, her answer burst into her consciousness. And she hated it, hated admitting that her mistake may have been leaving the safety and protection that was Greyson Talbott.

  Taylor grimaced. She hadn’t wanted to think about him. In fact, she’d all but ridden around in circles today trying not to feel his tug on her, trying not to see in her mind his dark eyes, his wide mouth, the way he looked at her. Tried not to hear his laughter, tried not to see the mirth that lurked in his eyes … or the smoldering heat in their depths. She didn’t want to feel warm or grateful or anything toward him. She didn’t want to like him, couldn’t afford to respect him. And yet … she did. Nothing could be worse. He was a white man, and for all she knew, he was also her enemy.

  But could the truth be that instead of her enemy he was her refuge? Her heart thumped dully at such a notion. Still, Taylor forced herself to consider his actions … and found herself nodding. At the very least, he’d been trying to understand, trying to help her, trying to put the pieces together. And even though he still did not believe her, nevertheless he had opened his home and his mind to her. She believed that he did not know the truth behind the lies that clouded her life. She also knew of no reason that he should involve himself in her troubles, but he had. It was that simple—and not at all understandable. Not from Taylor’s perspective. She didn’t believe, if the situation were reversed and he needed her help, that she would have extended her hand to him.

  But wait—she caught herself—it wasn’t her he was protecting. It was her father, his friend. A surge of relief swept over Taylor. She had no need to be beholden to Greyson Talbott. All he’d offered her, on the one hand, was a prison that kept her from her father and the truth. But on the other, he’d offered to her his assistance in opening the elegant doors for her to St. Louis society—wherein lay, she just knew it now, the answers, the truths, she so desperately sought. Then why not let him? He was one of them and this was his city, while she was an outsider and was lost in this place. Every door was closed to her. On her own, she had not the money, the clothes, or the connections. Without those things, she had no doubt that she’d be thrown off such commanding estates as she needed entry to.

  A rare burst of laughter bubbled up in Taylor. Not humorous laughter but self-mocking laughter. She was lost and alone in a bustling city populated with hundreds upon hundreds of white people—and she needed a white man to survive. The skills she possessed to survive in the wild could not help her here. She could not traverse these streets and alleys on her own. She knew the Nation like the back of her hand. She knew The People, how they thought, what their beliefs were, what made them tick. But not these people. Not the whites. Among them, even with blood kin surrounding her, she was as helpless as a baby.

  Taking Red Sky with her, Taylor walked back to the bluff’s edge and stared down at the roaring waters of the river. The encroaching night made it harder to pick out details, but she could make out yet another steamboat plowing its way along to a wharf. Absently she watched it, marking its progress. In only moments it would dock. The people aboard would then leave and go conduct their business or go home. They belonged here. She didn’t.

  With that realization, gone instantly was her renewed direction. Futility again ate at her. What difference did finding the answers of her life make? All of a sudden she didn’t care if Amanda or her father believed her to be alive or dead. She didn’t care what Greyson’s mother knew about her or thought of her. It just didn’t matter. Just as it didn’t matter what the mean Mrs. Scott said to her. Or the young maids. Taylor just didn’t care. About them. Or about anything. What difference did it make to her if any of them lived or died? Were happy or sad? Warm and dry, or cold and wet? These people, these white people, were nothing to her … just as she was nothing to them. Their lives would go on after today, just as would hers, with or without her answers.

  Red Sky stamped his hoof, signaling his impatience. Taylor stroked his neck, cooing softly to him. She asked herself why she didn’t just do as her horse seemed to want. Ride away. Her mother wouldn’t know. Taylor hated her disrespectful thought, hated the notion that she would not honor her mother. But her mother could not have known to what she was sending her daughter. What would be so awful, Taylor now mused, about her making her way out West, as she’d originally planned? Her life lay ahead of her. The only thing she couldn’t do was return to the Nation, to her mother. A prick of sadness ate at Taylor’s heart. She couldn’t afford to think now of all she had lost. She had made her choices with Monroe Hammer. She had no one to blame but herself for her banishment from all she knew and loved.

  This world, the white man’s world, then, was now her world. She had to learn how to survive in it. An ugly grimace at such an unthinkable fate cramped Taylor’s features. Then, pride welled up in her heart. She would do this. She’d never been bested. She would not be so now. Why was she thinking of leaving, of running away? What was she afraid of? Dying? No. Death would come to her one day, as it did to everyone. Dying was easy. It was living that was hard.

  Then … Taylor asked herself … I am staying? She would learn why her mother had sent her here. Why she had told Taylor she would be safe here. Taylor felt anything but safe. She was hungry and tired and her clothes were confining. And she was alone. She was all those things. But not safe.

  Safe. The word was a strange notion to Taylor. Had she, ever been safe? With her mother, yes. With Monroe Hammer, no. And now, outside the Nation? She shook her head, saying she wasn’t so sure. And why did she have a sudden need to be safe? To feel protected? She never had before. Even with her mother and then with Monroe, she’d made her own way, had stayed whole unto herself. Why should now, in the space of a day, be different? Why?

  Again … quietly, unbidden and on silent paws like those of a cat … came the creeping image of herself in Greyson Talbott’s home. She’d felt safe there. With him. Rare tears now stood in Taylor’s eyes. She’d felt safe with a white man. In his home. Lying in a bed that he’d provided … and sleeping soundly with him only a room away. Eating his food last night. Then today, wearing clothes he’d bought for her. Again eating his food today, food she’d snatched up from the kitchen on her way out of his house this morning.

  Taylor blinked, her blurred vision regarding her horse’s coarse mane. She was changed. Greyson Talbott had changed her. She didn’t know how … or when. But he had. The best evidence of that was his face swimming in her mind when she thought about leaving here. His name was the only one she hadn’t dismissed when she’d said she didn’t care. His and the man-bird Bentley’s. Her spirit guide. She’d separated herself from him. Rube’s curse suddenly pushed its way into her mind. If she ignored the signs, the old Cherokee guard had said, she would be destroyed … she and everyone she loved or would come to love.

  The implications were more than Taylor could stand. She had to go back to Greyson Talbott. Sniffling, wiping at her eyes, Taylor took a deep breath. Night was upon her. The air was turning colder. And she had someplace to be. With that decision, and refusing to think further than that, she hitched up her red satin skirt and mounted herself atop Red Sky. She urged the tired horse to turn around and then directed him back down the dusty trail, away from the wooded bluff that overlooked the river. She would make her way back the way she had come. And she would find her answers.

  Chapter Nine

  Taylor didn’t come here to her aunt and uncle’s. Drat. Maybe she couldn’t because she isn’t who she says she is. Maybe I fell for the lies of an opportunistic charlatan. No, I just can’t believe that. She is Taylor Christie James. She is. And she’s not here. Where the devil can she be? Grey cursed himself and Taylor. Here he’d changed his, his brother’s, and Charles James’s early plans for the evening. Their meeting up at the men’s club was out. Dinner at the senior Jameses’ was in. Wanting to see them all interact with Taylor present, Grey had sent notes around to Charles and his brother, telling them to meet him here. Then he�
��d shamelessly set about getting himself and Charles invited to the intimate dinner party already planned for this evening.

  But Taylor wasn’t here. He knew that because of the tears being shed here this evening over their belief in her recent death. Real tears.

  Still, foiled or not in his plans, it was a fine, starry night. A gentle breeze wafted in through the opened windows of the room, lifting the sheer draperies and cooling the air inside the formal parlor of Stanley and Camilla James’s impressive mansion. They were all here, the elder Jameses and their daughter, Amanda; Grey’s mother; his brother, Franklin. Charles James was present, too, and, of course, Grey. The topic of conversation, following a late supper hardly anyone had been able to eat, remained the recent death by hanging of Charles’s daughter, Taylor, niece to Stanley and Camilla, cousin to Amanda.

  A whiskey in his hand, Grey stood by the marbled fireplace, an elbow propped on the polished mantel. He gravely watched all faces and listened carefully to every word and evaluated each nuance or hesitation in their speech. These people and their conversation were vital to Taylor … wherever she was.

  “Oh, Charles, it just cannot be true. I do not believe it.” Camilla James’s voice was strident with emotion … honest emotion, Grey believed. “I refuse to believe that a daughter of…” She stopped, looked down at her hands folded in her lap, took a breath, and then went on. “A daughter of yours would do such a thing. Murdering someone. Do you think she could?”

  Grey watched Charles rub at his brow. “The truth is we don’t know how she grew up to be, Camilla. Or what she was capable of.”

  “It’s all so tragic, Charles. It simply cannot be true. A young woman hanged?” Camilla’s voice broke on the word hanged. She shivered. “It’s barbaric.”