Her Cherokee Groom

by Valerie Hansen

  “Only for a short time. Elias graduated from the Cornwall Foreign Mission School in Connecticut. My parents were connected to the school. That’s where we first met. Then, after Cornwall closed, Elias continued his studies at Andover Theological Seminary while Charles came home to work with John Ridge and his father, Major Ridge, on political matters.”

  “I was very disappointed when Charles told me the Cornwall school had closed. I was hoping to be sent there.”

  Astonishment colored Harriet’s expression and she carefully placed her cup on the table before speaking. “What made you think that?”

  “I can’t remember how the notion began, other than to recall Myra and John discussing it while she was so ill. She seemed to believe he would keep his promise to send me to study there when I was older. Now, of course, it’s too late.” She smiled wistfully. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because, dear heart,” Harriet said, reaching for Annabelle’s hand and grasping it firmly, “that school was created to educate Indians. Only Indians. If the Eatons were going to send you to Cornwall, they must have known you have mixed blood.”

  “Charles suggested the same when we discussed it. But look at me. My eyes are blue and my hair is lighter than that of most European dignitaries who visited the Eaton home. How can I possibly be?” Annabelle held her breath. Was that why she had felt such strong affinity for Johnny and the others? Was her heart remembering that which had long ago faded from memory?

  “Nevertheless, it is a distinct possibility,” Harriet insisted gently. “Elias and I would have had far less opposition to our marriage if I could have said the same of myself.”

  “How—how would I tell? Is there some secret way? Something no one has ever told me?”

  “I’m afraid not—unless you can get information from your foster father. Judging by the tales I’ve heard about him—and his new wife—that will not be easy.”

  “If I returned to Washington City to see him, I would undoubtedly be arrested, maybe even hanged. I cannot risk that. I suppose I could write him a letter.”

  “Do you believe he’d answer it?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “No.”

  “Then think. Is there nothing of significance you recall from your childhood? Some long-forgotten detail? Some memento? Anything at all?”

  “All I have left is Rosie, a china doll that Myra gave me when I was very young.”

  “I saw her on your bed when we took you to your room last night. I’m afraid she does not look a bit like a Cherokee.”

  “Or any other tribe.”

  “All right. Who else from your early life might you ask?”

  “I had planned to question the Eaton cook and valet but Charles and I were forced to flee before I had a chance to speak with either of them in private.” Another sigh. “I suppose there’s no harm done if I never find out for sure.”

  “On the contrary,” Harriet said soberly. “There is a Cherokee taboo against marrying within your mother’s clan. If your mother happened to be from the Wolf Clan, you will be strictly forbidden by tribal law from ever marrying Charles.”

  “And if I don’t know?”

  Harriet got to her feet and silently carried both their cups to the sink. When she finally turned and spoke there were unshed tears misting her eyes.

  “I’m not sure,” she said sadly. “But this lack of information will certainly complicate your meeting with Charles’s kin.”

  “I wondered how things could get any worse,” Annabelle said with a heavy sigh. “Now I know.”

  * * *

  A rider arrived at the Boudinot house just as the adults in the family were sitting down to breakfast in the dining room.

  Annabelle had begged off and stayed in the kitchen with Fiona, the children and their nanny, hoping to think through her latest dilemma before discussing the possibilities with Charles.

  When the horseman burst through the front door, he let it slam behind him.

  Hearing him shouting the word “Fire,” Annabelle and Fiona looked at each other in fright and decided to eavesdrop without need of discussion.

  Most of the messenger’s conversation was taking place in rapid Cherokee, making it impossible to follow. If it had not been for his frantic gesticulating and raised voice, Annabelle would not have been nearly so worried.

  She turned to Fiona. “What is he saying?”

  “Bless me if I know,” the cook replied, “but he surely does seem upset.”

  “There’s a fire outside town at one of the old farms,” Elias explained as he stood and looked at his wife. “I’ll take a few of the servants with me. You women and children stay here.”

  “I can help,” Harriet said, noting Annabelle and Fiona peeking from the doorway. “We’ll bring a wagon with water and provisions for the workers.”

  “No!” Elias’s shout made his wife plop backward into her chair as if pushed. “It’s at Johnny’s grandmother’s place.”

  Annabelle’s fingertips pressed to her lips. Oh, how sad for the poor little boy.

  When Harriet rounded the dining table and hurried to her side to slip an arm around her waist, she was a bit surprised by the maternal gesture, though not put off.

  Shock started to set in, however, as soon as the other woman blurted, “That’s where Charles and the boy went.”

  Annabelle stared at her, eyes wide, jaw gaping. “They’re upstairs, aren’t they? I thought they were just sleeping late.”

  “No.” Harriet was shaking her head. “They went to Johnny’s grandmother’s house after supper. Charles thought it would be best for the boy.” Her voice shook. “They were out there all night.”

  “Then I have to go!” Annabelle could tell that her outburst was frightening the nearby children so she sought to control herself—with minimal success.

  “No. You mustn’t. You heard Elias.”

  “I’m going, with or without you.”

  “You don’t even know where that farm is. I’ll have to come along.” Harriet motioned to Fiona. “See that the children are looked after, then prepare crocks of water. And send someone out to hitch up a wagon.”

  Annabelle had already gone to the closest window and was staring into the distance.

  She was not going to need a guide to find the fire. It had lit up the sky more brightly than a summer sun at noon.

  All at once, she ran for the stables.

  * * *

  Charles’s first task was saving the larger animals. He looped a rope around his old plow horse’s neck and coaxed it out of its stall in spite of its panic.

  Before he could go back for the mule, Johnny appeared, running toward the conflagration and screaming, “Golly! He’ll burn.”

  Charles snagged him by his sleeve, fisted the rope he’d been using and shoved it at the boy. “Hold on to this one for me. I’ll go fetch the mule.”

  The child was openly weeping and trembling so badly Charles wondered if he would obey but there was no time to argue.

  Leaving him holding the big gelding, he pulled off his coat as he ran back into the burning barn. Smarter than horses by far, mules were also harder to handle in tense situations. Although he suspected that Golly would find his way to safety if he were loose, Charles was not going to take any chances that the animal might panic and run back into the fire, instead.

  He grabbed the mule’s halter to pull its head down, then threw his jacket over its eyes.

  That was not enough to calm it completely but it helped. Fisting the arms of the coat under the animal’s throat he pulled him forward until they had traveled far enough in the right direction, then slapped him on the rump to drive him out through the open door.

  Chickens scattered ahead of the pounding hooves. The goat and litter of half-grown piglets easily found their way outside, too, squ
ealing as they ran.

  Neighbors were beginning to arrive to help fight the fire. Men yelled. Horses snorted and whinnied.

  Spotting his larger horse, Charles was relieved to see that Johnny had followed instructions. Not only was he still restraining the riding horse, he also had hold of the mule’s halter.

  “He came right to me,” the boy shouted. “He’s all right.”

  “Good. Take them farther away so we can work,” Charles called back. He didn’t see any way that the group of willing hands was going to be able to quench the barn fire. At this point, all he could hope for was that the house would be spared.

  The nearby live trees and weathered logs of the cabin had been soaked by the storm and a fine mist was still falling. That was a plus. So was the southeast wind that was carrying glowing orange embers away from the structure.

  Lightning was a common foe of farmers and city dwellers alike. Charles had had no time to investigate where the bolts had struck or see what other damage they might have done besides kindle this fire. All he’d cared about was saving the living creatures.

  The crackling of the flames, shouting of men and noise from frightened animals muted a startling bang.

  Barn wood above Charles’s head splintered.

  He ducked.

  Then whirled and faced the yard in a crouch, searching for the source of the threat.

  Everyone else seemed too busy to have noticed the shot but Charles had no doubt. Someone had just taken aim at him. And they had only missed by a few inches.

  For the first time since he’d seen smoke, he began to wonder if the fire had truly been an accident of nature or if it had been lit to draw him out of the house.

  * * *

  During the course of their journey from Washington City, Annabelle had learned how to ready her mare by herself. It wasn’t easy because of her height. But having succeeded once, she had insisted on taking care of the mare herself from then on.

  Now that pandemonium reigned in the Boudinot stable, she was glad she was so accomplished. While several servants saddled horses for Elias and his men, she bridled her mare.

  “Get back in the house with Harriet,” Elias shouted when he noticed her. “We’ll take care of this.”

  Annabelle wanted to scream at him, to insist that she was going to Charles whether anyone approved or not, but she saw little advantage in such a confrontation so she merely led the mare aside and waited, fidgeting, during the few minutes before the printer and a few of his servants mounted up and rode away.

  The morning air was cool, the ground outside muddy. Patches of fog lay in pockets, intensifying the mist that had already dampened Annabelle’s hair and dress. If she had not been so consumed by fear for her loved ones, she might have taken the time to return to the house for her coat.

  Casting any thought of personal comfort aside, she stood on a box to place the saddle, tightened the cinch and mounted. The mare was almost as ready to go as Annabelle was.

  Someone shouted, “Wait for me!”

  Annabelle belatedly recognized Harriet’s voice. She whirled the mare to face her. “No. There’s no time.”

  “What can you do? Let the men handle it.”

  “You don’t understand. I have to go. I have to.”

  “Why?”

  Unwilling to answer so publicly, Annabelle reined the horse in the direction of the fire’s glow, hung on tight and gave her a kick in the sides.

  The gray leaped forward, almost unseating her as they passed through the stable doors.

  Annabelle instinctively leaned forward and rode as if she’d been born in the saddle. She’d had enough recent riding practice that her body took over naturally when her frenzied thoughts failed her.

  Rambling, prayerful pleas for Charles, and for Johnny, were the best she could do.

  “Father, please? Please help them. And me. I—I have to see him.”

  Her mind instantly provided a crystal clear image of her Cherokee husband. So dear. So special she had no words to describe how much she cherished him.

  “Let him be all right? Please? And forgive me for being afraid to tell him how I feel.”

  Wind whipped her loose, damp hair across her face, stinging her cheeks, as she washed her conscience clean with her tears.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Back off! Let it burn,” Charles shouted in an attempt to protect his friends and neighbors from whoever was shooting at them.

  There was so much pandemonium around him that the warning was virtually ignored.

  Staying low, he tried to decide if one of the men he could see might have fired. Nobody looked guilty. They were all busy pulling tools out of the barn or setting up a bucket brigade from the watering troughs in the yard. That water wouldn’t last long at the rate it was being used. Besides, the worst of the flames were coming from the hayloft and were therefore out of reach.

  A couple of young men were struggling to get the old sow away from her pen and into the open. While he was watching them, Charles caught another movement out of the corner of his eye.

  Someone else was in the barn.

  “Hey, get out of there,” he yelled, stepping through the wide-open door.

  The figure stopped and turned.

  Billows of smoke kept Charles from identifying anyone. He waved his arms. “Get out. The animals are safe.”

  Instead of complying, the man stood stock-still. Except for his right hand. That, he raised.

  A pistol pointed directly at Charles.

  In the second it took him to realize what was happening, flint hit steel, a spark was generated, the powder ignited and the lead ball was on its way.

  Had all that occurred instantaneously, Charles would not have stood a chance of evading the bullet. The slight delay between the pulling of the trigger and the actual shot gave him just enough time to dive for cover.

  * * *

  The closer Annabelle rode, the worse the conflagration appeared. She had seen buildings burn before. This fire seemed to have a life of its own.

  As the flames flowed out under the eaves they wrapped around the roof like giant, cupped hands, then rose into the dawn as if drawn upward by a thousand invisible threads. The roar of combustion was so loud it drowned out the rush of her pulse and stole her breath.

  Chaos ruled the farmyard. Men and boys ran from place to place, seemingly without reason, while others filled and passed water buckets down a line toward the fire. There were also some bystanders who seemed less inclined to pitch in, although she supposed there was only so much that could be done.

  Spotting Golly’s big ears, she hurried her mare in that direction, hoping she would see Charles. Instead, she found Johnny. He was staring, wide-eyed and disbelieving, at the increasing destruction.

  Annabelle kicked loose from her stirrups and slid to the ground beside him. Her dress was so damp the skirt hung limp. Curls of wet hair were plastered to her forehead. She brushed them away with one hand while she touched his shoulder with the other. “What happened? Where’s your uncle?”

  The boy merely pointed to the barn.

  And to the fire, which by now had crept down the side walls and nearly reached the floor.

  “He’s in there? He can’t be. Look at it!”

  Still, the child continued to point. That was when she saw a shadow moving inside the barn. Whoever it was seemed to be staggering. Was that Charles? Was he hurt?

  “Stay here,” she ordered, handing her reins to the child.

  He didn’t try to stop her. No one did. The others were all too busy to notice a lone woman running through the billowing smoke toward the barn. Toward her husband. To the man she loved and now feared she might lose.

  Please, Lord, let me find him. Let me tell him how I feel. Please? Before it’s too late?
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  The shape she had seen from a distance was no longer visible but she knew approximately where he should be. That was where she headed.

  Creaking of the overhead beams sounded ominous. Annabelle stopped at the door and shielded her face by raising her arms, glad the weather had soaked her clothing so advantageously.

  “Charles!” she shouted. “Where are you?”

  He didn’t answer. No one did. The heat from the fire turned some of the moisture in her dress to steam, scalding her and bringing fresh tears to her eyes. Tears of physical pain and emotional loss.

  “Charles!” The heat forced her back. One step. Two steps. If he was in there she could not leave him. She simply could not.

  “Charles!”

  Silhouetted by the fire behind and partially masked by that in front, a man’s form arose.

  Annabelle gasped.

  She reached out to him.

  He seemed to be reaching back to her.

  Her breathing was ragged, painful. “Charles?”

  A creaking, snapping sound, so loud it temporarily blotted out everything else, split the morning air.

  Annabelle screamed.

  The second story loft support had burned through.

  And the man she had been calling to disappeared into the inferno as it failed and fell.

  * * *

  Charles had ducked outside to escape his assailant and didn’t see Annabelle standing in the doorway with her hands in front of her face, until the sound of the building’s interior collapse drew his attention.

  “Annabelle!” His shout was so filled with agony it became a mournful wail.

  Racing toward her, he prayed he’d be in time.

  What was wrong with her? Why didn’t she fall back? Why didn’t she turn and run? Couldn’t she see the danger?

  Burning, glowing embers rode up and spiraled around her like tiny tornados of fire and rose into the dawn sky. The walls of the structure were starting to tilt now that there was no center support.

  The whole barn began to cant to one side. Everything was happening in slow motion except for the one man who was running toward the inferno with every ounce of strength he could muster.