Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  She didn’t answer, didn’t have the breath or the inclination for it. She’d outpaced the others following her; that much she knew. Perhaps they’d stopped chasing her; perhaps sensibly they waited where they were, waited for the brougham to come to a stop in front of them at the front door, as it must. Or … as it would have, had not Taylor been running down the very middle of the driveway. Her footsteps crunched through the gravel, but still she ran, her lungs screaming for breath, her mind numb.

  Obviously seeing her, Edward, the driver, yelled, “Whoa!” to the horses and sawed back on the reins and the hand brake. The lathered animals skidded and pawed. Dust and gravel filled the air in a great billowing cloud. The carriage itself, with its wheels locked, skidded sideways and shimmied to a halt … not fifteen feet away from where Taylor had herself finally been able to stop. She bent over, put her hands to her knees, and gasped for breath.

  Just then someone from behind her grabbed her, startling a cry out of Taylor. She jerked upright and around. It was Amanda, red-faced with the heat and from running. Behind Amanda, at a distance, Taylor could see her father and Franklin and the doctor standing by his carriage with Calvin and Red Sky.

  Amanda, her sister, clutched at Taylor’s shirtsleeve. “I told them … I would see to you.” Like Taylor, she gasped for breath. “I think they … were afraid you might … shoot them. My God, Taylor, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I do not know. Grey,” Taylor got out, pointing to the brougham.

  Just then, Edward, the driver, stood up, startling Taylor and Amanda, who clutched at Taylor as the man frantically waved his arms. Was he trying to warn them away? His words confirmed he was. “Get back, girls. Go away. Don’t come any closer. It’s not—”

  A shot rang out. Amanda screamed; Taylor jumped. Edward grunted in pain, clutched at his shoulder, and toppled off his perch, falling hard, bleeding, to the ground. Wide-eyed, shocked, her mouth open, Taylor—still held in Amanda’s grip—could do no more than look to the brougham. What she saw there made her wonder if she was addled. It was Stanley James—not Grey—balanced in the opened door, one hand gripping the carriage frame, a smoking gun fisted in his other.

  Where’s Grey? was all Taylor could think in her benumbed state.

  Amanda recovered first, letting go of Taylor and charging toward her father. “What are you doing? Why did you shoot him?” Her voice was a crying scream of anguish and confusion. “Father, what is going on?”

  “Get back, Amanda,” Stanley James said, his voice level. With his gun, he waved his daughter away. “It’s not you I want. You’re in my way. Move.”

  “I won’t.” Amanda stopped where she was … directly in the line of fire between her father and Taylor. “You’ll have to shoot me first.” Making of herself a bigger target, Amanda held her arms out to either side and at shoulder height.

  “I’m not going to shoot you, Amanda. I love you. You are my daughter. It’s her I want. Taylor. She’s a sin I can’t forgive. And this is her judgment day.”

  “You’re not God,” Amanda said quietly and firmly. “Taylor’s done nothing wrong. It’s you who’s wrong, Father. You can’t do this.”

  “I can. And I will. Now move. It’s the last time I’m going to tell you.”

  Taylor had no intention of allowing Amanda’s bravery to get her killed. Nor did she doubt that Stanley James meant what he’d just implied—he would shoot Amanda if she didn’t move. The man’s hatred of her, Taylor knew, was stronger than his love for his daughter.

  So while they’d talked, while Amanda tried to reason with her father, Taylor had edged her gun out of its holster, held it at her side, and was even now taking one cautious step after another toward Amanda’s slender, vulnerable back. Taylor prayed her father and the others stayed where they were. She wanted nothing and no one to force Stanley’s hand, because she was almost upon Amanda. Taylor herself made no sudden move to draw her uncle’s attention to herself … just slowly and steadily advanced. She watched everything at once. Amanda. Her uncle. The horses. She heard everything. Her own rasping breath. Amanda and her father’s argument. Edward’s groans.

  The sweat of fear and pure calculation ran down Taylor’s spine. The one thing she could not do right now was wonder what this man full of hate might have already done to Grey. But he had done something. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here in Grey’s brougham, which he’d obviously taken at gunpoint. Taylor knew that if she dwelled on this, she would collapse into a ball and never stop crying. So she forced onto her very being the cold-blooded steeliness of the patient, stalking killer that her reputation said she was.

  Taylor drew even with Amanda, standing on her right side as she gently put a hand on her sister’s arm. Quietly, never looking her way, never taking her gaze off her uncle, who now watched Taylor much like a serpent would, Taylor said, “Get behind me, Amanda. Right now. Don’t argue. Drop down into a ball and cover your head with your arms. I don’t want you to see this.”

  “No, Taylor,” Amanda sobbed. “I can’t allow you to do this.”

  Taylor licked at her lips, tasting the salt of her sweat. “Do it, Amanda.”

  “Do like she says, Amanda,” Stanley said, sparing only the briefest of glances for his daughter before turning an evil grin on Taylor, a grin that split his wide, cruel mouth in two like a gashing knife wound in flesh. “You don’t have any part in this.”

  “I do,” Amanda protested, straining against Taylor’s tightened grip on her arm. “Why are you doing this? Stop it. Mama’s dead. Nothing can bring her back. You poisoned her.”

  “I did not!” Stanley James screamed, his face red and contorted. “Augusta did. I never—it was all Augusta. She did it. I never loved her. Only your mother. Augusta kept trying to—she pleaded with me, begged me to leave your mother. She threatened to tell your mother lies, that we were lovers. We weren’t. I told her I didn’t love her, to leave us be. But she wouldn’t. She befriended your mother. She—”

  “Ohmigod. Franklin. My marriage to him.” Amanda stared in horror at her father.

  Taylor watched her sister—yet thought of herself … in love with the other Talbott son, Greyson. What a terrible trickster was Fate. Terrible. It had put them all here, in this place, to face the sins of the mothers.

  “That’s right. You and Franklin.” Stanley continued his ranting. “Augusta hated the idea of you—Camilla’s daughter—loving her son. She wanted me only and not to be a part of our family through you. Then Greyson fell for Taylor, another of Camilla’s daughters.” Stanley’s expression crumpled. “It pushed her over the edge. And she … killed your mother. Because of her.” His voice a ragged roar, he pointed his gun at Taylor.

  Taylor stiffened her knees. Her gun felt slippery in her hand. But she didn’t dare try to wipe her hand on her britches. Fractions of seconds now were the difference between life and death.

  “No!” Amanda cried out. “Not because of Taylor, Father. You have to believe me. Just put the gun down. Please. And come inside with me and see Mother.”

  “No.” Stanley tightened his grip on the gun in his fist and descended from the carriage. He stood firmly on the ground, staring and glaring to a point somewhere behind Taylor and Amanda. “That son of a bitch is here. He betrayed me. My own brother betrayed me with your mother. She loved him, you know. Not me. Him.” Stanley focused again on Amanda … and then Taylor. “Your mother,” he said pointedly, “betrayed me with my own brother.”

  Her chin raised, Taylor said nothing. She didn’t dare breathe or blink. As quietly as she could, with her gun hand still hanging at her side, but with the deft touch of long practice, she cocked back the hammer on her gun … and waited.

  “Father,” Amanda said quickly in what Taylor recognized as a desperate attempt to divert Stanley’s attention away from her, “what have you done to Augusta Talbott?”

  That got a grunt of distaste out of Stanley James. “Not enough, I tell you. I used my pistol on the bitch and told her I’d neve
r loved her, that she was trash. And crazy. Augusta has always been crazy. I knew that. I left Boston to get away from her, but she followed me here. With her husband and sons, she followed me here and made my life a living torture. But I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you mean. I wanted to, but that son of hers arrived before I could.”

  Taylor’s breath caught. Amanda then asked the question Taylor dreaded: “What have you done to Grey, Father? What?”

  Stanley shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Taylor opened her mouth, filling her lungs with air and relief. She refused to heed the doubt that asked her if she could believe this man, if she could trust him to be telling the truth. She chose to do so. She had to.

  “Then where is he, Father? Why are you in his carriage? You took your horse when you left earlier.”

  Stanley shrugged, looking impatient and agitated now. “I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care. Quit talking to me, Amanda; you’re confusing me.” He distractedly ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he eyed Taylor … and her drawn gun.

  Here we go, Taylor told herself. Her eyes narrowed with her certainty. Calm suffused her inside. Clarity came to her brain. Time slowed.

  “Move, Amanda. I have unfinished business with Taylor.”

  His words didn’t surprise Taylor. She’d expected them. But they did shock Amanda. “No. I told you I wouldn’t. Taylor is my sister.” She threw the word at her father—the wrong word.

  Stanley grimaced, crouching into an ugly stance and raising his gun.

  Just as he did, at a distance behind him movement caught Taylor’s eye. Without having to look away from Stanley, she saw a huge roan with a big rider crouched low over his neck thunder around the gate and turn in to the James property. It was Grey. He was riding hard, urging the lathered horse to even greater speed. But he would be too late. It made Taylor sad. She said her silent good-bye to him.

  As if in slow motion, Taylor watched Stanley James level his gun and cock back the hammer. She heard Amanda scream, “No!” as Taylor yanked her sister to her knees and raised her own gun, her arm stiffened with deadly accuracy as she centered her weapon on her uncle’s heart … and fired.

  But he’d jerked to one side and fired in the same instant as Taylor had. With satisfaction Taylor saw him twitch and grimace. Her bullet had caught him in the left arm, only grazing him. But his bullet had caught Taylor squarely in the shoulder. A ripping, searing pain almost took her to her knees. She staggered but kept her feet … saw that Grey was close enough now that she could make out his features frozen in horror and disbelief … and fired again at her uncle. This bullet took him high in the chest. He cried out, his gun firing almost reflexively. Again pain tore through Taylor, as the bullet ripped through the flesh in her thigh.

  She went to her knees, desperately fighting the weakness that threatened to cause her to black out. Amanda clutched at her, screaming, crying. With a sudden burst of renewed strength, Taylor pushed Amanda down and threw herself on top of her. “Stay down, goddammit,” she cursed. And Amanda did.

  Quickly Taylor rose, firing again—just as Grey neared them and fought to bring the big roan to a stop, all the while fumbling in his effort to get his gun from its holster under his coat. He screamed out her name as Taylor watched her bullet hit her uncle again in the chest—this time almost in the center of it. Close to his heart. It wouldn’t be long now, if only she could hold on. Breathing laboriously, feeling soaked with her own blood, her vision blurring, Taylor watched Stanley stare in confusion at her, as if he had no idea what had just happened. A pool of blood now stained the front of his shirt and vest.

  “Why won’t you die?” were her uncle’s last words as he fired once again at Taylor, hit her, and then jumped and jerked and twisted as Grey, cursing and yelling, emptied his gun into Stanley James’s already dead body.

  The man fell to the ground, face-first. It was over.

  Relieved, suddenly numb and cold, with the world around her buzzing, Taylor slumped over Amanda, who was screaming and crying under her. Stanley’s third bullet had taken Taylor in her side. It was bad. Very bad.

  Then hands were grabbing her, turning her over. People were all around her, all of them talking and yelling. Some were crying. It was like a nightmare. Every one of them was calling her name. They wouldn’t leave her alone. Taylor tried to tell them to leave her be, but she couldn’t seem to talk. Something was very wrong with her. She wanted Grey. Only Grey. Where was he? Above her—she realized she must be lying on the ground because she could see the sky above her—was her father’s worried face. And Franklin’s—he was holding a sobbing Amanda. And there was Calvin. And even Edward, the wounded driver, was staring down at her. But where was Grey?

  Then someone brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her temple. Taylor turned her head. It took great effort.… She was growing steadily weaker and colder. But she did it. She looked up into Grey’s face. He was sad about something … and crying. Or trying not to. Taylor tried to raise her hand but for some reason couldn’t. She wanted to stroke his cheek.

  Through the fog of a growing grayness around her, one that beckoned her away, she suddenly heard Grey’s voice loud and clear. “Oh, God, Taylor. Oh, God, honey. Don’t give up. Don’t. You’ll be OK. The doctor’s right here. Just fight, baby. Fight. I love you. Please fight.”

  When the doctor tried to open Taylor’s shirt, she pushed his hands away, telling him no. She then licked at her lips and stared up at Grey. “I can’t fight, Grey,” she rasped out. “It hurts too much.”

  “It can’t hurt half as much as you leaving me. Let the doctor see to you, Taylor. Please. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you, and you have to live for me. You have to.”

  Taylor smiled. “I can’t, Grey. I want to live. But I can’t. Please don’t hate me. I love you.” She then looked to the ring of faces above her … realizing suddenly that they weren’t all standing above her but were all on their knees and surrounding her. Her father stroked her forehead. Her sister held her hand. They were both sobbing quietly. “I love you, Father. And Amanda, my sister. Just know that I love you both.”

  Taylor felt herself slipping. She focused again on Grey. This time managing to raise a hand—it was covered in blood, her blood—to his cheek. He caught her hand there, held it, kissed her palm. Her touch left him streaked with blood. “I came here, Grey, to find you. And I did. You must go to the Nation and tell my Cherokee mother that I love her. Will you do that for me?”

  Grey nodded. His tears caused wide streaks through the blood on his cheeks. “I will. But you’re going with me. Do you hear me, Taylor? You’re going with me.”

  “Yes,” she said feebly, the last of her strength ebbing from her. “I will go with you. I wish to be buried there, Grey.” Then she clutched at him, her body arching. “I love you, Grey.”

  She heard his answering words—“Oh, God, Taylor, I love you; don’t leave me, please”—and then … all was darkness.

  Her soul was adrift. The great hovering evil darkness had won … just as Bentley, the man-bird and spirit guide, had feared. Just as Rube, the Cherokee guard in Tahlequah, had predicted.

  The day will come for you, Taylor. 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.

  Epilogue

  “It could not have been easy. But still, it is good that you brought her here.”

  They were again speaking of Taylor. Sitting on Tennie Nell Christie’s rough-wood front porch with her, Grey leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he fiddled with a twig he’d scooped up a moment ago. He glanced over at Taylor’s Cherokee mother. “I did only as she asked, Miss Christie.”

  The handsome Cherokee woman was shelling peas. Late-summer sunshine filled the day, just as the crockery bowl filled her lap. Kindness and war
mth radiated from her dark eyes as she met his gaze. “Still, it is good. It is in this place that she belongs.” Her hands stilled as she looked out onto the breathtaking wooded vista that was the Nation. “Here, in this place, we will keep her close to our hearts.”

  Grey swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’d like to stay, too. For the same reason.”

  Tennie Nell nodded as if she had expected him to say that and went back to her simple task. “Then you have come to like it here.”

  Grey couldn’t get enough of watching the older woman’s graceful movements with her hands. “I love it here. It’s so peaceful. And quiet. Taylor said it was. She spoke to me often of the Nation’s beauty. She told me of the hills and the wild game and the rivers. She was right, too.”

  Tennie Nell chuckled. “If my daughter were here, she would say she is always right.”

  Grey grinned, knowing the truth of that. “Yes, she would.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  Without warning, Tennie Nell spoke sharply, her voice breaking. “I should never have sent Taylor to her father.”

  Grey sat up. They’d been through this before. “You had no choice, Miss Christie. You were trying to save Taylor’s life. You did what you had to do.”

  “No.” The word was adamant. “I knew she did not have to leave. Her white blood would save her. They could not kill a white woman in Tahlequah at their prison. I could have told her. And them. They would have had to let her go. Instead, I made my brother break her out. He is now an outlaw. And the guard Rube later died. His heart gave out.”

  Grey nodded. He’d heard this many times. “Miss Christie, what you say is true. You could have told Taylor she was white and had her released from prison, a free woman. If you had, what would she have done? She would have felt betrayed. And she would have gone straight to St. Louis to hunt down her father. I think you know that. So don’t be so hard on yourself.”