He took her hand and led her toward his desk. Drawing her to the seat nearby, he sat in the desk chair he had earlier vacated.
His heart thumped loud in his chest, but he worked to remain calm. He had made his decision.
“I have not been completely honest about what's happened with the Indians.” He measured his words.
“The Indians?”
“Yes. You must have read some things in the paper about the removal of the Choctaw.”
She nodded slowly.
His stomach turned. “I tell you, Charlotte, that's not how it was.”
“Then tell me.” Her voice sounded small. Was she ready for these truths?
His eyes focused on hers. He then described what he knew of the conditions of the trip and the Choctaw’s journey, of the sickness, and of the death.
As much as she worked to remain as still and calm as she could, tears made small rivers on her face. But she let him continue.
He did not stop, could not stop, until he had finished. By then, he had begun to question his decision to share with her.
“How can God let something like this happen?” She wiped at her eyes.
“He put us in place to prevent this. To be the voice of the orphan and the widowed. Of the disabused and mistreated. And I failed.” This was not about him. He would not make it about him. Keeping his features strong and firm and set, he let this be about what it was. A chance to stop this. A lost chance.
“Theodore, you can’t think that. You did everything you could.”
He shook his head. Of course, she would want to comfort him. “It's about to happen again.”
“Again?” Her eyes were wide, glassy, as they settled on him.
He slid his chair closer to hers. “The Creek Indians still living in Alabama have appealed to President Jackson. They are asking, well, pleading for protection from the state government.”
“What is Alabama trying to do?” She blinked a few times.
“They are attempting to get rid of tribal governments and extend state laws over the Indians. Their goal, of course, is to get the land. Somehow, some way.”
“Won't the president help them? They are citizens, aren't they?” Her voice was stronger than he would have expected.
“Not technically.” He lifted a hand to emphasize the last word. How had he and the others not seen this coming?
“I thought the Indians had been told that if they became civilized, they would be the same as citizens.”
“Yes, but not technically citizens.” The way she looked at him pierced his heart as if she’d shot him with an arrow.
“That won't stop the president from helping them, will it?” Her eyes glistened anew.
“Charlotte, there's something you need to understand about President Jackson. He wants nothing more than to see the Indians—all Indians—abolished from our lands by whatever means necessary.”
“Lord, may it never be!” She jerked back as if she had been slapped.
“Yes, we need to pray. And pray hard. We need the Lord to show us His hand, His will.”
“Let’s pray now!”
“Yes.”
But as they bowed their heads, Frelinghuysen could not help the small doubt that crept in. Would prayer do anything? Was God even listening?
****
Thomas cleaned the children’s slates. A mindless task, it gave him the chance to think on other things. Was he reaching the young Cherokee? Would he? What kind of impact could he have on this village if the people despised him so?
The floor creaked in the direction of the door.
Jerking his head, he set eyes upon Adsila.
She stood in the doorway, her gaze sweeping around the empty classroom.
His breath caught. Why had she come? To see him? No that wasn’t possible. For Tsiyi? Yes, that must be. To help Tsiyi hobble home.
He cleared his throat. “Mohe went with Tsiyi. Did you not pass them?” Maybe she had come to see him?
Her eyes met his. They were intense but her features were tight, betraying nothing. “I came another way. By the stream.”
She did seem to enjoy being near the creek.
Silence fell between them. A somewhat uncomfortable silence.
Thomas set down the slate he had nearly finished cleaning and turned his body toward her.
“Thank you,” she said, spinning and stepping through the door.
“Adsila,” he called, maneuvering around his desk.
She halted and half-turned. Facing him, one of her eyebrows rose.
He paused. Was that all the response he would get? Letting out a breath, he continued, “I wondered if you thought any more about our talk.”
“Our talk?” Her brows furrowed.
“About Jesus. About his sacrifice.”
“Oh.” She looked away. Was she thinking on it?
He held his breath, praying she did.
“No.” She turned her face toward his again.
What? How had she…? He caught her eyes.
She peered at him, almost into him. Was she waiting for his response?
Pushing aside his disappointment, he attempted to keep his voice even. “If you decide you want to talk about it, or have questions, my door is open.”
Her face contorted. “But your door was closed.”
Should he laugh or cry? Just like Atohi, so literal. “It's an expression. It means 'I'm always available to talk'.”
She searched his features. Was she not sure he spoke the truth?
After a few moments, she said, “I see. But there is no need. I have no questions. No talk needed.”
His brows met, but then he sighed. “Just… I am here if you do.” He threw his hands up and turned back to his desk. Picking up a slate, he wiped at the chalk marks. She would be gone soon enough. What had kept her here this long was a mystery to him.
“And what makes you think you have all the answers?” There was an edge to her voice.
When he looked up, he fought to keep his surprise from showing. She had come several paces into the room. How did she move so stealthily?
Keeping his voice in check, he said with an even tone, “I never said I have all the answers.” He continued to work on the slates, but he found it difficult. Why? Because she now stood a mere three feet away? “I only think I can answer some of the questions you may have about our talk.”
She arched a brow. “Oh? And if you have any questions…” She paused. Was she searching for her words? “You can ask someone else.”
How dare she take that tone with him? What nerve to scoff at his well-intentioned offer! And he had only ever approached her with the kindest of manners. What had he done to deserve this?
“Don't worry,” he shot back, thrusting the slate he held to the desk. “I will.”
He abandoned the cleaning altogether and, coming around the desk again, closed the gap between them. Why was he letting her get a rise out of him? How was it that she could draw such intense emotion out of him?
“Good. Because I don't care what you think!” Her eyes flashed.
His breath quickened. Was the room spinning? But she remained at the center of it all: her and that blue dress. How was it that every time he saw her, she wore that blue dress? The same one he commented on that night he dined with her family.
He shouldn’t, but he leaned closer. Their faces were inches apart.
She didn’t pull away, but her hands curled into fists. Was he having the same effect on her that she was on him? He could barely see straight. And he was certain his heart would thump right out of his chest.
The heat between their bodies was stifling. He had to resist the strong urge to crush her to himself. No, that would not end well.
He lowered his voice until it was not much more than a whisper. “If you don't care what I think, why do you keep wearing that dress?”
Adsila opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
He stared into her eyes. This was dangerous.
&
nbsp; Too dangerous.
Her voice rang out between them. “Because I only have four.”
He pulled back. “Oh.”
Had he imagined everything? It had nothing to do with him? Naught but the product of a limited wardrobe?
He stepped back.
She let out a ragged breath. Had she been holding it?
When he looked at her, she caught her lower lip between her teeth.
He drew himself away and turned to his desk, his back to her. Leaning one arm on the classroom wall, he took several deep breaths. Only then had he truly regained control.
“Adsila, I…” he started as he turned.
But she was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
Trouble for the Upper Creeks
ATOHI CAME UPON the small house over the hill and near the creek. He waved at Adsila tending to her herbs in the side garden as he walked by.
She smiled and waved back then turned her attention back to her plants.
As he approached the door, he landed his hand on it three times.
A moment later, Inola greeted him. “Atohi, it is good to see you,” she said as she wiped her hands on her apron. “How is Yona?”
“She is well, but growing quite large as her time nears.”
“It won't be long now, and you two will share sleepless nights again.” Inola winked.
He smiled. “I came to speak with Gawonii, but I didn't see him in the field.”
“He went into the center of the village for the paper. You know how he is. Should be back soon, though. Come in.” She moved to the side and welcomed him into her home. “I'll make some coffee.”
Atohi nodded as he stepped through the doorway. He always enjoyed this particular home. A mixture of the most pleasant smells always filled the rooms of this house. The cook that inhabited this home was the best in the whole Cherokee nation.
Inola bustled about, warming water on the stovetop and setting out cups.
He took a seat at the table and watched her move about the kitchen as if it were the most natural place. His own wife could be called a decent cook, but her true place was among the animals of their flock. Yes, Yona found herself most at home tending to the cows and chickens. Her cooking just did not compare to Inola’s.
When the water bubbled, having reached its boiling point, Atohi’s mouth watered. He could almost taste the hot beverage he would be graced with.
Creak.
The door protested as Gawonii entered.
Atohi glanced back at his friend, but Gawonii’s attention was on the paper, his brows furrowed.
Inola's features shifted, her concern on display. “What is it?”
Gawonii closed the door. Did they not wish Adsila to hear?
When Gawonii looked toward his wife, his eyes landed on Atohi. His eyebrows shot up, and a smile touched his lips.
“Ah, Atohi, how are you?”
“I am well. And you?” Atohi hesitated. Something weighed on the man.
A great sigh released from Gawonii. “We are well but not at all pleased by the news we receive these days.” He raised the paper into the air.
“It is sobering. I haven't had a chance to read today.”
Gawonii shook his head as he sat. “Reports of the Seminoles and the Creek.” Gawonii opened the pages wider. “The Seminoles are at Payne's Landing on the Ocklawaha River for treaty negotiation.”
“Treaty negotiation?” Atohi’s breath caught. “Will all just give up their land? What about the Cherokee?”
Gawonii’s jaw was set, his eyes hard, as he said, “I won't. The land is part of my soul. I will stay and fight.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Inola blotted at her eyes with the edge of her apron.
“We must talk like this.” Gawonii hit the paper. “The Upper Creek Indians have earlier this month signed a treaty. Their land will be divided into allotments.”
“Allotments?” Inola seemed to not understand.
Atohi was glad she asked, for he was uncertain he could see it.
“Each Creek will own his allotment and can sell or exchange it as he pleases,” Gawonii said. He did not seem pleased about it. But why would he be?
“I don't trust the white man to be fair.” Atohi narrowed his eyes. “They are devious.”
Gawonii remained silent.
The door flung open, and Atohi’s attention was drawn to the intrusion.
Tsiyi stepped into the house, Adsila not far behind him.
She shook dirt from her skirt, but her eyes were wide, her forehead wrinkled.
Inola rose, glaring at Tsiyi. “What are you doing home? It is the middle of the school day.”
Tsiyi shrugged. “We were at recess, and three men with painted faces came. They talked with Mr. Greyson. He told us to go home. So, we did.”
Adsila's face paled. As if the blood had drained from her features. She rushed out.
Inola looked after her for a moment but turned back to Tsiyi. “These men, what did they look like?”
“They were Cherokee,” the young boy said. “With paint on their faces.”
“Tell me of the paint.” Gawonii’s eyes were serious.
“Black across their eyes. Red streaks down their cheeks. And white on their foreheads.” Tsiyi bit his lip and frowned. “What’s going on?”
Atohi glanced between Inola and Gawonii. He put words to what they all knew to be true. “War paint.”
****
Adsila rushed into the schoolhouse. Overturned desks and chairs filled the room. Papers and books were scattered everywhere. Where was Thomas? Had they…?
Stepping farther into the room, she swallowed to keep from vocalizing her concern. Her knees trembled as she moved forward. Would they hold her? Closing her eyes, she breathed in. She had to be stronger than this.
The sound of another breath, drawn in, this one ragged, gave her hope. He was alive!
Her gaze moved around the space. Where was he?
As she came close to the chalkboard, she spotted his limp form, slumped against the back of his desk.
“Thomas?” Her voice shook. Stronger. You must be stronger.
A weak groan was his only response. He made no move to so much as turn in her direction. He was still. Too still.
“Thomas, please look at me,” she said, fighting the fear welling within. She took tentative steps toward him.
Pressing a hand to the floor and grasping for the top of the desk, he struggled. Was he attempting to stand?
“Thomas!” She rushed for him. Ducking under an arm, she helped him rise.
The guttural cry he emitted caused her stomach to knot. Did she truly care so much?
Would he now face her? She looked at him, but could see only a portion of his profile.
He passed a few labored breaths.
How could it be that they pained her, too?
Turning his head, he caught her eyes.
As much as his gaze tempted her, she could not keep from examining the wounds marring his features. Blood seeped from the corner of his bruised lip. A red gash over one of his eyebrows stretched to his hairline. Swollen patches on his jaw promised bruises in the days to come.
He attempted to turn away. Was her stare too much?
She gripped his shoulder and he grimaced.
Were there bruises under his clothing as well?
She jerked her hand back. Had she hurt him?
Still, she could not help herself. She needed to see him. Lifting fingers to his jaw, she turned his face back toward her. “Thomas, what happened?”
He shook his head and looked down.
“Please.” She stretched her hand across his cheek, urging him to look at her once more. “Tell me.”
“So fast.” He let out a breath. “It all happened so fast.” His eyes held hers. “And I don't even know who they were.”
Her heart sank. The attack was no mystery. Tsiyi had spoken of Cherokee in war paint. Who else could it have been? Cherokee traditionalists on the warpath, se
eking revenge wherever they could find it.
She frowned, working to keep her anger out of her features. While it was true that white settlers were brutalizing her people needlessly, it didn't give these men the right to beat Thomas.
But then…
Her resolve melted.
Thomas wasn’t responsible.
Not for the poor treatment of the Cherokee. Not for the Indian Removal Act.
None of it.
Her eyes met his again, and the close proximity of their bodies became uncomfortable. She took one step back.
“Adsila?” He searched her eyes. “Do you know something?”
“I…” The words wouldn’t come. Many emotions coursed through her, none that she could put a name to. But not one of them spoke of hate. How was it that she didn’t hate Thomas after all? Rather there was something more in her heart she didn’t understand. Something warm. And unnerving.
She found her voice. “Let's get you cleaned up.”
Taking his hand, she grabbed the cloth he used to clean the slates. Careful to take slower steps, she led him out of the schoolhouse and toward the creek. Drawing him to sit down by the stream alongside her, she faced him. And, dipping the cloth into the cool water, she brought it to his lip.
He startled and pulled back, but leaned toward her again and allowed her to press the cloth to his wound once more.
She continued to work, wiping all traces of blood from his face.
He stared into her eyes as she did so.
This, too, she found both pleasing and unsettling.
After she cleaned the last cut, she leaned back. “There,” she said, as she let the cloth fall into her lap. Her eyes, no longer occupied with his injuries, found his. Could she read his thoughts? How was it that she found herself so fearful of her own?
Thomas cleared his throat.
“Thank you.” He reached forward and touched her hand.
She looked down at their overlapping fingers. How could she face him with her next words? “I am so sorry… for what happened.”
He ducked his head. Was he attempting to catch her eyes? “Why? You are not responsible.”
She looked at him. So kind. So gentle. “But it was an act of my people. Taking out their anger for the white man on you.” Tears stung her eyes.
Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage) Page 6
