Cherokee Storm

by Janelle Taylor

  “That’s what I like to see.” Her father came out of the bedroom and joined Oona at the table. “The two of you getting on as family should.”

  Shannon brought the first plate of journey cake to the table. When Oona rose to help with the rest of the breakfast, Shannon held up her hand. “No, please, let me. I’ve been a guest here long enough.” She went back for the kettle of porridge. “It’s going to be a fair day. I saw three does at the spring.”

  “Three is a lucky number,” her father agreed. “Like the three of us at table.” He chuckled and bowed his head to offer the morning prayer.

  Shannon slid onto the bench across from the two of them. She and Oona might not be the best of friends, but a small crack had opened. With luck, things between them would improve. They were alone so much of the time that being at odds with each other would be terrible. Perhaps the native remedies would prove the means to narrow the breach between them.

  It was late afternoon that day and Shannon was scrubbing the hearth stones when her father shouted to her through the open door.

  “Leave the bucket and change your apron,” he said. “We have a guest.”

  She glanced back at the stones. Only a quarter of the hearth was left to do, but obediently she rose from her knees and wiped her hands on her work apron. “Shouldn’t I finish here first?”

  “No, darlin’.” He grinned at her from the doorway. “Someone has come to bring you a gift. Go fix your hair and pinch your cheeks or whatever you women do to entice us. Step lively now.” He hesitated. “And say nothing about Oona.”

  “Oona? Why?”

  “Her being Indian. ’Tis not something I brag about, having her here.”

  “Are you ashamed of her?” It was true that her father’s woman hadn’t welcomed her into their home, but if he didn’t mind sleeping with her, why did it matter what others thought of their relationship?

  “It would be bad for trade if some white men knew of it. Not that it’s any of their affair.”

  “All right,” she agreed. “I won’t say anything. But who is it that’s come?”

  “You’ll see soon enough. T’will please you, I’m sure.”

  Puzzled, she did as he bade her. She washed her face and hands, removed the apron and donned a spotless white one, pinned up the stray tendrils of hair that had fallen loose around her face, and fastened her mother’s cameo brooch at her throat.

  The first thing she saw when she stepped onto the porch was the cow tied to the hitching rail. Not just any cow, but the devil’s own horned minion, Betty. Her heart sank. Not Storm Dancer come to see her, but one of the Clark twins. It had to be. Why had they brought the damnable cow here?

  She knew the answer. She simply didn’t want to accept it.

  “There she is,” her father called. “There’s my girl.”

  Drake Clark came out of the store and doffed his wide-brimmed hat in greeting. He was wearing the same blue shirt he’d worn the day Betty had run away and she’d gotten lost in the woods. His sandy blond hair was damp and he seemed even more solid than when she’d seen him last. “Miss Shannon.”

  “Drake.” She nodded. She’d forgotten how good-looking he was.

  Drake grinned and thrust out his chest.

  Cocky as ever, Shannon thought. “What brings you here?”

  “He brought you a fine present,” Flynn said. “This cow. What do you say to that?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t…I mean…” She took a breath and tried again. “I’m honored,” she said, brushing at an imaginary wrinkle in her apron, “but I can’t accept such an expensive gift.” What was a cow worth out here? More money than she wanted to think of. But she didn’t want a cow, and she didn’t want this one. She’d never been fond of milk. “Your mother,” she began. “Betty belongs to her.”

  “Ma’s got enough cows to tend. ’Sides, I paid her for Betty fair and square,” Drake said, striding forward. “Thought we have five milk cows and you none. We got more than we need. And a woman needs a cow for butter and such.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t…”

  Drake’s brow furrowed. “I’d be obliged if you’d accept the animal. If I recall, you make a fine bread pudding.”

  “Of course, she will,” her father said. “Come on into the house and take dinner with us. I want to hear all the news. Is your family settled in?”

  Drake brushed against Shannon as he stepped through the doorway, and for an instant, he pressed his body against hers. She gasped as excitement made her pulse quicken. Damn the man. He was too forward by far. Still, something bold inside her was stirred by his presence.

  Fixing her with a self-satisfied look, Drake crossed the kitchen and settled himself at the table. Shannon glanced around for Oona, but the Indian woman had obviously made herself scarce. It was up to her to whip up a meal that wouldn’t shame Flynn’s hospitality.

  “Ma sent butter and a side of bacon,” Drake said. “And another envelope of tea leaves. Can’t abide the stuff myself, but she said you favor it.”

  “That I do,” her father proclaimed. “As any self-respecting Irishman would.”

  Shannon took down cornmeal, honey, and salt from the shelf. She’d put corn bread in the iron spider to bake and added vegetables to the stew Oona had served the night before.

  “Drake’s got his own place,” Flynn said. “A cabin and two hundred acres more or less of prime valley land.”

  “I got a good cabin with a root cellar dug underneath and barrels of salt pork and cornmeal stowed for the winter,” Drake said. “It’s good farming country. If I work hard, I’ll do well.”

  “I thought this was all Cherokee hunting ground,” she said.

  “Not Green Valley,” her father explained. “It’s a far sight from here. The Cherokee consider the mountain and valley cursed. The Cherokee don’t hunt there, and they don’t camp there.”

  “Superstitious nonsense,” Drake said, “but good for us. My pa bought more than two thousand acres off an Indian chief for next to nothing.”

  “He bought it from a half-breed Creek Indian who was no more chief than I am.” Da chuckled. “Cherokee don’t sell land. They think it’s like air, a gift from the Creator. A man can’t own it any more than he can own the rain.”

  “One Indian’s the same as another to me,” Drake said. “And Pa’s got a deed that will stand up in a white man’s court.”

  “It is good land,” Flynn agreed. “You’ll do well, so long as the war don’t sweep over these mountains. If it does, we’ll all be blown away like last year’s dry leaves.”

  “If war comes, we’ll give the Frenchies what for,” Drake boasted.

  “Doubtless,” Shannon put in. Drake echoed his father when it came to politics, and like most men, he was always eager to fight, rather than find other ways to settle disagreements.

  “And I’m claiming more upland acres, good for grazing.” Drake folded his arms and leaned back. “Pa’s raising beef for Fort Hood, but I’ve a mind to breed horses. Good horseflesh is rare out here and more folks comin’ all the time. Reckon I’ll be needing a helpmate soon.”

  Shannon pretended not to hear. The morning before, Oona had found a clutch of duck eggs near the creek. It wasn’t often that they had eggs, and she’d saved them for a special treat. Shannon decided to add them to the cornmeal mixture with some of the butter and the salt and honey.

  She didn’t look at Drake, but didn’t need to. She could feel his gaze on her. It was obvious that he’d come courting, and she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t thrilled a little to the thought. No matter how well she tried to hide it, she wasn’t immune to his charms.

  Drake cut a fine figure with his broad shoulders and clear blue eyes. He had a way about him, and he was all man. No wife of his would ever have to worry about a roof over her head or food in her belly…. No wife of his would lie awake in her bed pleasuring herself.

  On the trip out from Virginia, Drake had made it clear that he was interested in her. At
first, she’d believed it was just that he was trying to see if he could get under her skirts, but even after she’d put a firm stop to that, he’d kept watching her. She hadn’t wanted to encourage him. She’d hoped that once she left the Clarks, he’d turn his attention to the Clayton girl. Alice was only seventeen, but settled, more ready to be a married woman than she was.

  As for herself, Shannon wasn’t looking to be a wife, at least not anytime in the near future. She’d been a servant for so long that it pleased her to be beholden to no man—other than the respect and duty she owed her father. She beat the eggs harder.

  Drake was a handsome man, decent, and hardworking. A woman could do a lot worse. Other than having a hot temper, being somewhat of a braggart, and having no understanding of the Indians, Drake had no real fault in him that Shannon could find. He’d make Alice Clayton a good husband.

  But not her. At least, she didn’t think so.

  Shannon’s years working as a barmaid had given her a distrust of men. Most men, married or not, fathers or not, were always on the lookout for an easy roll in the hay with whatever woman they could catch. And most men were all too quick to tell a wife to hold her tongue or mind her children. She had opinions, and she would be hard-pressed to keep from speaking up for herself. Even Oona, who seemed smart enough, was quick to jump when Shannon’s father asked for something. And Oona never contradicted him. That kind of wife Shannon knew she could never be.

  As she assembled the meal, she listened to what Drake and Flynn said, but she didn’t directly enter the conversation. She kept expecting Oona to join them, but she didn’t, and Flynn made no mention of her absence. Shannon wondered if it was the Clarks he was hiding Oona from.

  “You keep a sharp eye out for hostiles,” Drake said as Shannon slid the hot pan of corn bread on the serving platter. “You ’member those trappers we met on the trail?” He glanced at Shannon. “Ones said their mounts was stolen?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I do.” She ladled out bowls of stew to each man. Drake’s hand clamped down on hers, pinning it to the table.

  “Amos Tyler, he come out from Virginia with four wagons three days behind us. Found what was left of them. Dead as dead can be. Scalped.”

  She pulled her hand free.

  “Not ten miles from where they left us,” he continued. His gaze challenged her as he stuffed a chunk of corn bread in his mouth and chewed steadily.

  “Bad luck,” her father said. He tasted the stew. “Good. You added something, didn’t you?”

  She nodded, unable to find words. The trappers dead. Scalped. Had Storm Dancer killed them? Cold dread seized her. Was she a fool to think she was safe with Storm Dancer because they’d been friends as children?

  “That renegade did it, certain,” Drake said. “Murderin’ bastard. We should have finished him when we had the chance.”

  You tried, Shannon thought. But Storm Dancer outfoxed you and your brother. “You don’t know it was him,” she said.

  “Who else?” Drake asked. “Plain as plain can be. If Pa hadn’t stopped us from goin’ after him, this would be over and those trappers would be alive today.”

  “He’s smart, your father,” Da said. “Not much chance of catching a Cherokee in these mountains. And there’s no way of tellin’ who killed those men. Could have been allies of the French or other trappers.”

  Drake shook his head. “White men don’t scalp.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Flynn replied. “Who do you think taught the Indians the custom? Heard it all started during King Philip’s War, up Massachusetts way.”

  “Don’t know about that,” Drake said.

  “If it was other trappers, what better way to turn suspicion away? Scalps bring a bounty in New England, so I hear.”

  “All the same, if that Storm Dancer crosses my sights, he’s a dead man,” Drake insisted.

  “Don’t say that,” she said. “You can’t condemn him when you don’t know he’s done anything wrong.”

  “I don’t hold with that talk,” Flynn said. “I’ve known him since he was a boy, and I’ve never known him to do a dishonorable thing. Not that he couldn’t kill if it came to that. I just don’t see him murderin’ without good reason.”

  Drake shook his head. “It’s time the Cherokee moved on, pack and parcel. This land’s too good for them. Decent folks will be comin’ in, tillin’ the soil, and raising livestock. God-fearing folk.”

  Flynn spread honey on his corn bread. “Mind that talk. You shoot a Cherokee, any Cherokee, and you may as well stick your head in a hornet’s nest. More trouble than you can imagine. Stick to raisin’ your livestock, Drake. You’ll live longer.”

  “I’m of a different opinion, Mr. O’Shea, but I didn’t come to argue with you. I came to ask your permission to walk out with your daughter.”

  Flynn glanced across the table at her. She glared at him. “You’re always welcome here,” her father said to Drake. “But Shannon’s been on her own for a long time. You two will have to come to an agreement between you.”

  “I’d be a good provider,” Drake assured him. “Shannon’s caught my eye, and what I take a fancy to, I usually get.”

  “Do I have any say in this?” Shannon asked.

  “You’ll come around,” Drake said. “’Cause you’ll soon see, the life I can offer you is too good to resist.”

  Drake spent the night at the post and left for home at daybreak. Shannon was relieved to see him go. She couldn’t deny that he was an attractive man and that his family was well-off by frontier standards. She was so used to being dismissed as a bound girl, good for nothing but bed sport, if a man could persuade her—which none had.

  It was natural that she was a little flattered by Drake’s offer. If she’d been inclined to marriage, he’d be a good choice. And, the longer he was nearby, the more difficult he would be to resist. There was a high price to pay for keeping her independence…maybe too high.

  And then there was Oona. Shannon had worried about the Indian woman. Where had she gone overnight? Was she safe?

  Her fears turned out to be for naught, because Drake was gone no more than half an hour and the Indian woman came into the house and began her daily chores.

  “Why did you go?” Shannon asked. “Are you all right?”

  Oona shrugged.

  “I don’t understand. Why did you have to leave?”

  Oona put a finger to her lips. “It saves trouble.”

  Shannon shook her head. “It’s not right that you—”

  “It is our way.”

  Shannon reached for her leather apron, but her father motioned to her. “I’ve a mind to ride out to the nearest village and do some trading with Split Cane’s people. I thought ye might care to go along and make your acquaintance of some of the women.”

  She glanced from him to Oona.

  “Go,” the Indian woman said. “I will watch the store.”

  “I’d like that,” she said. It would give her a chance to spend time with him alone. They had so many years to make up for. And it might give her a chance to ask him how he could live with Oona and want to hide her from whites. It seemed shameful somehow, and unlike the father she remembered, the man who chose his own path, regardless of what others thought.

  They took the horses, and Shannon found herself once more astride Badger’s broad back. The way was downhill for the first few miles, but they made good time. The pony had no trouble keeping up with her father’s sorrel gelding, even though the horse had longer legs.

  “Are you of a mind to accept Drake Clark’s offer?” Flynn asked when they’d stopped by a nameless creek to water the animals. “He’s a good catch.”

  “So he seems to think.”

  Her father sat down on a rock and filled his pipe with tobacco. He was dressed all in buckskins, and if it hadn’t been for his merry Irish eyes, he might have looked like an Indian himself, Shannon thought. Maybe he was, in a way. Maybe this wild country changed you.

  “You’re of
an age to take a husband.”

  “Drake Clark doesn’t treat his mother with much respect.”

  “According to Nathan, she’s not an easy woman to live with.”

  “You’d never let me get away with sassing my mother.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Da agreed. “But Hannah raised him and his twin brother. If he’s lackin’ in respect, the fault’s hers. Have you any real objection to Drake—other than that?”

  “I like him well enough, I suppose.” More than that, if she was honest. He was a lusty man, and her own strong nature responded to that. But, she wondered, would having a good husband in her bed be enough?

  Once married, she would be trapped into a way of life where she’d have few choices. Nathan Clark didn’t hesitate to slap his wife when he was angry. Most men did as much. Would Drake treat her the same way? And if he did, could she submit to him as a wife was supposed to? As the law gave them the right?

  She glanced in her father’s direction. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I know Drake well enough to make a decision like that.”

  “He has a temper, that’s true enough.”

  “Like his father.”

  “Who wouldn’t with the shrew Nathan’s married to?”

  She chuckled. It was true. Hannah Clark was an unpleasant woman, but…maybe she had good reason. She was a hard worker, and she didn’t seem particularly appreciated by either her husband or her sons.

  Shannon’s pony thrust his nose deep into the water, swishing his tail as he drank. On a branch nearby, a wren hopped and chattered. The sun was warm on her face, and she felt lighthearted…truly happy.

  “Don’t think to wait for a love match, me girl. Few white men cross our path out here, let alone princes on unicorns.”

  “No? And I thought the mountains must be full of them,” she teased.

  “I felt that way about your mother. Like she was something shining out of one of the old stories. When I first laid eyes on her, the sun was gleaming off that golden hair of hers—like yours, it was. She was a sight to behold, with a waist a man could circle with his two hands.”