Her Cherokee Groom

by Valerie Hansen

“Quite well, I can see.” Searching her memory for details she had amassed when Margaret had redecorated the Eaton home, she scanned the room, settling on a few items whose origin seemed assured. “That rug is the most beautiful Persian carpet I have ever seen.”

  “Why, thank you. I picked it up in New York.”

  “And the Hepplewhite chairs? I think they’re much more practical than Chippendale, don’t you?”

  “Really, I...”

  Annabelle sauntered across the expensive imported carpet to admire the marble-cased clock on the mantel. “I believe there is one just like this in the White House. I’m almost certain of it.”

  “Then come and sit by me while we have tea,” Sali said, taking a seat on the settee and patting the cushion beside her. “I want you to tell me all about Washington City. My son has been there several times but he never notices the important things. What kind of bonnets are they wearing there now?”

  Reminded of her bare head, Annabelle nervously touched her hair. “The brims are a bit larger this season, perhaps, and there is a lot of velvet. They’re still worn over the common white lace cap, of course.” She shyly lowered her gaze. “Alas, mine suffered during our journey and I have had no chance to replace it.”

  “We don’t follow all the fashion trends here in Georgia, anyway,” Sali said. “Our summer is too warm for such foolishness.” She motioned toward a doorway and a servant delivered a tea service much more ornate than the one Margaret Eaton had been so impressed to receive.

  When Annabelle looked up at Charles and saw his mouth hanging open in astonishment, she almost giggled.

  * * *

  Listening to his mother and his wife chatting was akin to hearing the babble of a brook. The sound was not too strident but neither was it informative. Of all the questions he had expected Sali to fire at Annabelle, ones about fashion and furniture had not even occurred to him.

  Happily, Annabelle seemed to be holding her own. She had evidently picked up useful knowledge while remaining in the background of her foster father’s life.

  Charles had relaxed as much as he could in one of the dainty chairs the women had been talking about with such enthusiasm. He didn’t know one seat from another except to notice which ones looked too spindly to support a grown man’s weight. Speaking of size, now that he could see his mother and Annabelle so close together he suspected that his wife had lost a little weight on the trail. Either that or his mother had become more portly, a possibility he would not have mentioned if his life had depended upon it.

  The Cherokee women he had known did seem to have a tendency to gain, probably because the ones who traveled in his circles all had servants. People who did their own work seemed to stay more fit, like their ancestors.

  “So, enough about Washington,” Sali finally said, sipping her tea from a delicate porcelain cup. “Tell me about yourself. Who are your people? I heard something about an important man. John H. Eaton?”

  Nodding, Annabelle set her cup on the tray to mask the fact that her hands had begun to tremble. “He was my guardian.”

  “Guardian? You are not his true daughter?”

  “No.” Annabelle shook her head, then squared her shoulders and faced the woman who was technically already her mother-in-law. “I was taken in by the Eatons when I was three years old. I don’t remember who my real parents were, and no one seems to be able to tell me.”

  “I see.” Sali’s eyebrows arched, accentuating her high cheekbones and imperious attitude.

  “There is a good chance Annabelle has Indian blood,” Charles interjected.

  Annabelle could have smacked him. Just when she was starting to get along with his mother he had to go and stir the kettle.

  Sali gracefully put down her cup and saucer. “Really? What makes you think so?”

  Annabelle tried to explain. “Before my first foster mother died, I heard her and John Eaton talking about sending me to the Cornwall school as soon as I was old enough.”

  “Did you go there?”

  “No.” She shook her head sadly, soberly. “After Myra passed away there was no more mention of school for me. I taught myself to read and write.”

  “You had no nursemaid? No nanny?” The older woman snorted delicately. “That is scandalous.”

  “Nevertheless,” Annabelle replied, “it is the truth. I plan to write to some of the old retainers in my father’s employ and ask if they know more, but it could take months to hear back from them.”

  “Well, until then you are wise to have kept to yourselves,” Sali said, acting as if she was giving them a compliment rather than condemning them to live apart. “That is our way, as Charles well knows.”

  “But...we were married in the church,” Annabelle offered, realizing too late that making that particular confession was not in her favor.

  Stone-faced, Sali arose. “I think we have discussed this more than enough,” she said as she glided toward the doorway to the foyer. “When you have learned who you really are, perhaps you’ll visit again and we can continue our conversation. In the meantime, Charles can have his former room back. I’ll see that it’s readied.”

  Left openmouthed, Annabelle watched her go. “Did I just get thrown out?”

  He was slowly shaking his head as he took her hands and helped her to her feet. “In a manner of speaking, yes. What my mother doesn’t realize is that I will not be staying here. It’s too far away from you.”

  “She will be annoyed.”

  He laughed so heartily it brought David peeking in to see what was amiss.

  Charles waved him off and took Annabelle’s arm to escort her outside. “Woman, you have an amazing way of understating the obvious. My mother will not be annoyed. She will be furious.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Expecting to find Johnny where he had left him, Charles went straight to the Boudinot stables with the horses while Annabelle chose to seek out Harriet. He could understand her need to speak to a woman who properly commiserated. If anyone understood what it meant to step into a role in Cherokee society, Harriet did. If she had not had the heart of a missionary and a love for native people to start with, he didn’t know how she would have coped when her family in Connecticut had initially disowned her.

  Entering the barns, Charles called, “Johnny? Uwetsi? Son?”

  It was becoming more and more natural to refer to the boy as his kin in either language. The warm feeling made Charles smile. His mood plummeted, however, when he noted that Golly was missing. That was not a good sign.

  None of the workers in the Boudinot stable or yard claimed to have noticed the boy. Hurrying into the house, Charles found Harriet and Annabelle seated together at the kitchen table. Not only were they crying, so was Fiona.

  Frustrated and growing short tempered, he ignored their tears and simply announced, “I can’t find Johnny. The mule is gone, too.”

  * * *

  Chastened, Annabelle realized that she had been thinking only of herself. Charles must also be suffering from his mother’s unreasonableness. And poor Johnny had no one left now that his grandmother was gone. No wonder he had run away.

  She whisked at her tears and jumped up, sniffling a little but ready to go. “Where should we look first?”

  “I don’t know. He was mad because I didn’t take him to Mother’s with us and told him we’d be staying here for a few nights. He probably went back to his grandmother’s place to sulk. I hope so because if he’s not there he could be anywhere.”

  “I’ll go get Elias,” Harriet said.

  Charles stopped her. “No. He has a paper to print and a deadline. I’ll go out alone.”

  “You may be going, but not alone,” Annabelle insisted, fully expecting him to argue. When he merely wheeled and headed back to the stable, she followed.

  They
stopped the grooms from stabling their horses, remounted and headed north.

  “Why would he run away when he knew we were coming back?” Annabelle asked, then answered her own question. “Wait. I get it. He figured you’d stay with your mother and I’d come back to New Echota alone. Isn’t that right?”

  “Possibly. Probably.”

  Charles was leaning to one side, studying the road. “Check on your right and look for the mule’s unshod hoofprints.”

  Complying, she used that quiet time for contemplation. Not only did Sali reject her, so did Johnny, in spite of their tenuous camaraderie during their cross-country travels. Apparently the boy thought she was fine as a companion but not as a member of his clan or family. That attitude should not have surprised her, yet it did. Moreover, it emphasized the wide gulf between Cherokee culture and her own upbringing.

  Another thought struck her in the conscience and left a theoretical wound. She had rejected John Eaton’s choice of Margaret Timberlake in exactly the same manner.

  “But Margaret was wicked and sinful,” Annabelle muttered, convinced that her own motives had been pure while arguing that she had merely been concerned for her foster father’s happiness. That was true. She had. And the times when she had tried to be friendly to Margaret, her overtures had been summarily rejected. Nevertheless, the woman was John’s wife, and as such, should have been treated with at least a modicum of respect.

  Charles straightened. “See anything?”

  “No. Just lots of overlapping prints and mud.”

  “We have that storm to thank for saving the house,” Charles said. “I thought the barn fire was caused by lightning until the man you saw in there shot at me.”

  “Well, at least the others left.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “What?”

  “Harriet said two strangers rode past her, going the other way, while she was on her way to help.”

  “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  “She didn’t tell me about it until we were back in town. I guess I hadn’t recovered from thinking I’d watched you die.” Annabelle knew there was an angry edge to her tone but couldn’t help it. “There were dozens of locals there. Harriet can’t possibly know everybody. Besides, there’s no proof that the men she saw were up to no good. They may have been going to fetch more help.”

  “What did she say they looked like?”

  “People. Men. I may have passed them, too, and not noticed.”

  “What made you finally remember to tell me?”

  She shrugged. “I really don’t know. The memory just popped into my head.”

  Charles released her abruptly as if throwing a bone to hungry dogs. “Go back. Now, while we’re not far from town. I don’t want you out here.”

  “What about what I want? I love Johnny, too.”

  “Then act like it and take care of yourself. If something happens to me, you may be able to convince Elias to help you stay in town to look after the boy, even if it’s only as his guardian.”

  “Wait a minute. What are you saying?”

  “That if the man who died in the fire was not alone, there’s a good chance his partners are waiting where they found me before. If Johnny has wandered into a trap, there’s no way I can look after you, as well. Now, go.”

  With logic so irrefutable, Annabelle was forced to listen. “All right. I’ll turn back to Harriet’s and bring help. Will you wait?”

  “Not when the boy may be in mortal danger.”

  “I understand. At least promise me you’ll be very, very careful?”

  “Always.”

  She held her excited mare in check as Charles gave his horse a kick and galloped away. Watching him go gave her pangs of heartache.

  The full effects of isolation now that he had gone heaped a huge dose of fright atop her already shaky mountain of emotions. Nothing seemed amiss in field or forest, yet she imagined all sorts of menace.

  That was more than enough to make her urge the mare into a gallop and race back to New Echota.

  To sanctuary. To home.

  * * *

  The ruins of the barn were still smoldering when Charles arrived, sending tiny fingers of smoke wafting skyward whenever a breeze stirred the last embers beneath the deep bed of ashes.

  He noted Johnny’s mule, standing with its reins looped over the hitching rail, and patted it on the neck in passing. He was going to give that boy a good talking-to when he found him. Leaving any animal tied without food or water, let alone under saddle, was unforgivable—unless there were extenuating circumstances.

  Charles checked his surroundings, was satisfied things were quiet, then began to climb the steps to the porch. One. Two. Three, and he was at the door.

  It hung misaligned with the frame rather than closed as it should have been.

  Alerted, he hesitated. Hair at the nape of his neck prickled. Behind him, the mule brayed.

  Whirling, he saw nothing until he looked in the direction Golly’s long ears were pointing. The mule may as well have had hands to show him the threat.

  Johnny was being toted off, thrown over a man’s shoulder like a sack of flour.

  Charles shouted, “Stop!” Reached for one of his pistols. Took aim.

  The kidnapper not only failed to slow, a second man showed himself and fired. Charles shot back. Both missed.

  A muffled cry of “Tsali!” tied his gut in knots. He took cover and watched as the men disappeared around what was left of the burned barn.

  * * *

  It took Annabelle little time to arrive back at Harriet’s and pass the word to Elias and other available men. She never said that Charles had sent her for help, nor did she infer he was in trouble. Bare facts were enough encouragement. A group of five men mounted up and rode hard for Johnny’s lisi’s former home. Staying to the rear of the pack where she wouldn’t be noticed, Annabelle followed along. This time, nobody bothered to order otherwise.

  One thing she wished she had was a rifle. Charles had given her firearms instructions during their travels and had even let her shoot his pistols as soon as she had demonstrated proficiency reloading. Although he had not said so, she assumed the lessons were less for her amusement than they were to prepare her to assist him if they were attacked.

  Worse, since she had dressed up to visit Sali’s she had not stuck her hunting knife beneath her sash the way she had while on the trail. Disgusted, Annabelle realized Charles had been right to send her back to New Echota. Given the possibly dangerous situation and her ineptitude regarding self-defense, she was no asset. She was a hindrance.

  Starting to slow the mare and let the posse pull ahead, Annabelle rued her penchant for going off half-cocked like a faulty flintlock. She’d been acting foolishly and she was penitent.

  “I should go back,” she told herself. “I should obey my husband and wait for him at the Boudinots’.”

  The old Annabelle Lang would have listened to those sage notions. This Annabelle thought of her grandmother and of Myra and of Charles’s imperious mother, Sali; strong women, all of them. She pointed the horse toward Johnny’s lisi’s house, leaned forward, planted her heels in the mare’s sides and shouted, “Yah!” at the top of her lungs.

  * * *

  Charles followed the boy’s captors immediately instead of pausing to reload. By the time he reached the place where he had last seen them they had disappeared despite his quick action.

  He froze in place. Listened. Heard rustling ahead. They were either in what was left of the rear of the barn or outside behind it. He chose to sneak up on the outside. A prickling sense came too late to effectively warn him.

  Intense pain sent Charles crashing to the dirt before he could react. Lights flashed in his eyes. The back of his head throbbed. He landed face-first.

  Some
one shouted in triumph. Another person laughed coarsely. “Woo-hoo. That’s better. Get his pistols while I drag him inside.”

  “Ain’t you gonna finish him?”

  “Not until I figure out how to prove he’s dead and get my money,” the first man replied.

  Through the fog of his injury, Charles thought he recognized the voice of Caleb, one of John Eaton’s stable hands.

  Lying still, he feigned unconsciousness as his senses began to slowly return. The only blessing to this entire fiasco was that he had left Annabelle behind where she would be safe. Chances were good that these men had no interest in her.

  “I told ya’ grabbin’ the kid’d bring him to us,” the second man said. “What’d I tell you? Huh?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Shut up and let me think. We can’t haul his dead body all the way back to Washington. The flies’d drive us crazy before we got there, ’specially in the summer.”

  “We could take him back alive. Keep him shackled and make him work for us.” He guffawed. “We’d have our own Injun slave!”

  Given the choices, Charles would have gladly volunteered to become their slave—until such time as he could make his escape. Since they thought he was still unconscious, however, he decided to keep his opinions to himself.

  The way he had it figured, the longer they argued, the more alert he’d become and the better his chances of winning a fair fight.

  He’d have felt a lot more positive about his survival if they hadn’t disarmed him. He could see the brace of pistols where the thugs had thrown them aside. One was loaded, one was not. If they got careless and he could manage to reach the loaded one, he might have a chance.

  If he picked up the wrong one and aimed it, however, he’d be dead before he even realized his mistake.

  * * *

  By the time Annabelle reached the burned-out barn the men from New Echota had it surrounded and were shouting at whoever was holed up inside. She left her mare beside the house and circled in the opposite direction. She had no plan, nor was she acting irrationally, given the group of armed men on her side. She was simply curious and unwilling to stand by and wonder.