American Dreams

by Janet Dailey

  "Those words have a beautiful sound to a hungry man," he told her, then walked with her to the dining room.

  A trio of candles burned in the silver candelabra situated at the far end of the table. Will crossed to their light and sat down at his accustomed place at the head of the table. Temple entered the room carrying a pitcher.

  "Would you like some cold cider with your meal, Father?" Temple asked.

  "I would like that, yes." Will unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap while Temple filled a goblet with cider, then placed the pitcher on the sideboard.

  "Is there anything else you need?" Victoria stood by his chair.

  Will looked up from his plate of cold pork and corn bread. The candlelight softened the hollowed look of her face, giving it the faint glow of youth. "Sit and keep me company."

  Victoria shook her head. "I must see to little John. He is fretful tonight."

  For one hot instant, Will wanted to demand a husband's share of her time. There was much he wanted to tell her about the meeting of the National Council, the stories from those in other parts of the Nation, the recent harassments by the Georgia Guard, and the depredations of the pony clubs. But he knew the words would be wasted on his wife. Holding his tongue, he squared around to face the table and his plate of food.

  "You should see to John then." With forced calm, he took the goblet of cider Temple set before him and lifted it to his mouth.

  "Do you not want to hear the outcome of the National Council meeting, Mother?" Temple protested on his behalf when her mother turned to leave the room.

  "Whatever decision they reached, I am confident it will be the best for our people." But Victoria's expression of confidence failed to conceal her underlying indifference.

  Temple pulled out a chair and sat down. "Tell me about the meeting, Father. I want to know," she insisted, the glitter of suppressed anger in her eyes as her mother left the room.

  Will studied his daughter, who was now more woman than child. As he had before, he suspected she sensed the emptiness of his marriage, the lack of closeness. In her own way, Temple tried to make up for Victoria's uninterest by stepping in and filling the void, as she was doing now.

  It hadn't always been like this between Victoria and him. When they were first married, their lives together had been rich and full. When Temple was born, they had rejoiced together, and when their next baby died within hours of its birth, they had grieved together. But with the death of their next child their lives had begun to take different paths.

  In all, four healthy children had been born to them. But they had buried five others. Victoria had seemed to die a little herself with the death of each, and she had withdrawn from him a little more each time, until they were two people living under the same roof, eating at the same table, but no longer sharing their lives or their marriage bed.

  Victoria's entire world was centered on her children. Each living child had become that much more precious to her. She couldn't bear to be parted from them for even a day.

  Will understood that. It was why he had hired the new tutor instead of sending the children away to boarding school. It was an expensive decision, and perhaps not a wise one, given the current state of affairs in the Nation.

  Without thinking, Will found himself recounting the events of the meeting to Temple, censoring only those details that might unduly alarm her. He took a fatherly pride in the intelligent questions she asked, and he answered them all. When a silence finally settled over the table, his plate was clean and the hunger was gone from his belly.

  "It is good to be home," he said in contentment.

  "It is good to have you home." Temple gathered up his dishes and utensils and carried them to the sideboard, adding over her shoulder, "Have you heard The Blade has returned?"

  Will smiled at the feigned nonchalance in her voice. "Does this please you?"

  "It will if he stays." Temple threw him a quick smile that said she intended to make it her business that he did.

  4

  The sun sat high in the sky. With the heat of the day upon them, there were no classes in the little log schoolhouse. Temple stood in the shade of the back veranda and watched as the teacher set off across the lawn, a girl holding each hand, arms swinging, skirts swishing. The boys soon fell in behind them, forming a loose procession.

  Temple had often observed Eliza Hall playing with the children in the afternoons. Each time, the teacher had given every appearance of being as carefree and happy as her young charges, a vast difference from the earnest woman who ruled the school-house. Recalling the way the teacher's eyes sometimes shone with excitement for a subject, Temple realized that only around herself and her mother did Eliza Hall appear stiff and reserved.

  Half an hour later, Temple rode from the stables on her spirited mare. Skirting the double row of Negro shacks, she turned onto a narrow field lane. The mare pranced and sidestepped the whole way, eager to run and impatient with the slow pace.

  For a short distance the lane ran alongside the spring-fed creek that rambled through Gordon Glen. Through a break in the willow trees, Temple spied Eliza Hall crouched on the opposite bank, the children crowded around her peering at some object she was showing them. A pair of unlaced half-boots sat alone on the gravel bar that jutted into the stream, the white of a pair of stockings poking out of their tops. From the size, Temple knew the shoes belonged to the teacher. She wished she had ridden by earlier to see the proper Miss Hall wading in the creek.

  Keeping to the shady side of the narrow track, Temple let the mare break into a slow canter. Ahead, a wheat field shimmered like golden silk in the sun. Tobacco grew in the next clearing, its long broad leaves tipped to catch and hold the sunlight. Farther on, the yellow tassels of cornstalks wagged in a south breeze. Riding closer, Temple saw slaves hoeing weeds, the women working alongside the men, their backs stooped by the steady swing of the hoe.

  Her father sat astride his big blaze-faced gelding in the shade of a hickory tree. She rode over to join him, as always feeling a surge of pride that this man was her father.

  "I thought you would be here." She halted her mare alongside his big gelding and surveyed the field before them, conscious of the closeness between them that didn't seem to need words. "The corn is getting tall."

  "We should have a good crop."

  "Are we going to have a Green Corn Dance this year?"

  "No." Will Gordon caught the glimmer of disappointment in his daughter's expression and wished he could give her a different answer, but the cost of such a feast was more than he could afford this year on top of the expenses he had already incurred in building the schoolhouse, buying the necessary books and supplies, and paying for the teacher's travel fare and her salary. Still, he regretted that it was so. Of all his children, Temple was his favorite. The realization came as something of a surprise to him. He had always expected his strongest feelings would be for his son. But Temple reminded him of his father. She had that same proud spirit and sharp mind, the same boldness and energy, and a smile that could instantaneously win hearts. "Did you ride all the way out here to ask me about the Green Corn Dance?"

  "No. I was restless." She reached forward to stroke the mare's sleek neck and smooth its wind-tangled mane.

  Watching her, Will noticed the ripeness of her figure as the calico material of her dress stretched to outline the firm, round shape of her breasts. "Stay on Gordon Glen. Keep within its fences today." Before she could question his unusual edict, Will explained, "The Georgia Guard is in the area."

  "How do you know that?"

  Her sharply questioning glance held no fear, only surprise. That pleased him. "They were at the meeting of the National Council in New Echota."

  "Did they cause trouble?"

  "No. They stood around and watched, like those black crows strutting along the fence rail." Will indicated the black birds perched on a section of fence several yards away.

  Temple laughed. "You are right, Father. They are like thieving
crows." She rode her horse over to the fence and flushed the crows from their perch. "And like crows, we'll soon chase them from our land."

  Will refrained from pointing out that the crows were already circling back. "Like crows they might be, but they are still men, Temple. Remember what I said."

  "I will."

  Off she rode, the mare lunging against the restraining bit. Will watched her, confident she wouldn't disobey his order. She understood the reason for it. Strong-willed she might be, but defiant she wasn't. When she rode out of sight, he directed his attention back to the field.

  Conscious of the sun's rays heating her back, Temple turned in the saddle and glanced at the sun, shielding her eyes from its glare as she checked its location in the sky. With a sigh, she realized it was later than she had thought.

  Reluctantly, she turned the mare for home and rode through the orchard toward the main road. The afternoon ride hadn't quieted her restlessness as she had thought it would. If anything, it was stronger.

  When she reached the main road, the mare snorted and sidestepped, disturbed by something. A second later, she heard the muffled thud of hooves on hard ground. Recalling her father's warning about the Georgia Guard, Temple turned the mare off the road and hid in the thick woods bordering it. A hog darted out of her path, grunting an alarm that sent others scurrying deeper into the timbered brush.

  A horse and buggy rambled into view, accompanied by two riders. With a warm rush of pleasure, Temple recognized The Blade and his black servant, Deuteronomy. She had always found much to admire about the tall, strongly built man, but today she was again impressed by how well The Blade sat his horse.

  From the time she was her sister Xandra's age, Temple had wanted his blue eyes to look at her, to notice her. Even when he had teased her, which he had done unmercifully, Temple had still thought there was no one as wonderful as The Blade.

  When he left three years ago to attend a college in the North, Temple had been proud of his achievements, though she had missed him keenly in that time. Once The Blade had rebelled against the confinement and strictures of college life and quit within the first year, she had mixed feelings at the prospect of his homecoming. The decision had been a blow to his father, Shawano Stuart, who had always shared Will Gordon's belief in the importance of education.

  Temple could have forgiven The Blade for disappointing his father if he had returned to take his rightful place at his father's side. But he had come back for only a brief stay, then left again to drift to Tennessee, Kentucky, the Carolinas, and finally the mountain gold camps.

  He was back now, but for how long? Would he ever stay in one place long enough to fulfill his duties to his family and the Nation? Could he ever commit himself to a wife and children? To her?

  Temple sighed in irritation and rode out of the woods to intercept the horse and buggy. Reining in beside it, she deliberately ignored The Blade and smiled at the man in the buggy. The darkness of Shawano Stuart's hair was thickly streaked with white. Age lines creased his broad face, but his blue eyes were as sharp and alert as a young man's.

  "It has been a long time since I saw you last, Shawano Stuart. You look well," she greeted him in Cherokee. He understood English well enough, but the use of it came stiffly to his tongue.

  "Young Temple, it is you," Shawano Stuart replied, gesturing eloquently with his hands in typical Cherokee fashion. "You have grown into a woman with the grace and beauty of a swan."

  "She has the hiss of one, as well, Father," The Blade inserted dryly. "Perhaps that is why no one has come forward to make her his wife."

  "How would you know, when you have made yourself a stranger to us?" Temple challenged.

  Shawano chuckled at their barbed exchange. "There will be time enough for the two of you to sharpen your tongues and wits on each other later. We are on our way to see your father."

  "When last I saw him, he was at the cornfield. Look for him there before you go to the house." She backed her horse away from the buggy.

  "Where are you going?" The Blade frowned.

  "To the orchard." With the breeze heavily scented with apples, it was the first place that came to her mind.

  "The Georgia Guard has been seen in the area," he warned.

  "Then you'd best ride with your father." Without waiting for a reply, Temple kicked her mount into a lope. She smiled in secret pleasure when she heard the echoing hoofbeats behind her.

  She halted beneath a tree and dismounted to pluck a green apple from a low-hanging limb. The Blade swung out of his saddle and gathered up the reins. As she bit into the apple, everything seemed suddenly much sharper to her—the tartly sour taste of the apple, the fruity smell in the air .. . and the sound of his footsteps. She turned to face him, feeling very much alive.

  "You should have accompanied your father. I am safe on Gordon Glen," she asserted, then looked at the apple and tossed it away. "I must remember to tell Mother the apples are still too green to pick." She began to walk, leading the mare.

  The Blade hesitated, then fell in with her. She seemed almost a stranger to him, though there were still traces of the girl he remembered visible in the proud tilt of her head and the flashing challenge in her dark eyes. But the rest—the flat chest, the childlike eagerness, and the innocent beauty—they were gone. In their place was a disturbing ripeness.

  "You should not put too much trust in the idea that you are safe from the Georgians on Gordon Glen," he told her, surprised by his own curtness. "They are not above accosting our people in their homes."

  "I know," she replied without concern. "I have read accounts of such incidents in our newspaper. The Cherokee Phoenix has been filled with stories of homes being plundered, livestock stolen, crops burned, men flogged and beaten, women assaulted—violated— all with no recourse."

  First published nearly two and a half years before, the national newspaper was a source of pride to the Cherokees. Its stories were printed both in English and the Cherokee syllabary devised nine years earlier by the Cherokee silversmith Sequoya, who sometimes went by his English name, George Guess. Estimates varied widely as to the number of Cherokees able to read and write in their language. Some put the figure as high as ninety percent; others claimed it was closer to fifty percent. But all agreed that anyone who spoke Cherokee could learn to read and write in that language in only days with Sequoya's syllabary.

  Regardless of which number was the true figure, the literacy rate among the Cherokees was still higher than that of the Georgians, who were, at best, only three generations removed from their beginnings as a British penal colony.

  "You have only read of such incidents," The Blade said now. "In my travels, I have witnessed them. I can tell you firsthand that the Georgians take pleasure in subjecting our women to their abusive manner." The surge of anger that The Blade felt when he thought of some coarse Georgian putting his hands on Temple was obvious to her.

  She halted and wheeled about to face him. "Then you should be working with others to stop it."

  "There is little anyone can do."

  "So you do nothing."

  Rankled by the criticism in her voice, The Blade shot back, "What would you have me do?"

  "The same thing our fathers do—meet, discuss, and search for a way to end it. But you cannot be bothered." She turned and started walking again. "When will you leave this time?"

  "Maybe I have decided to stay for a while."

  "Have you?"

  "Do you care?"

  "How typical of you," Temple retorted scornfully. "You avoid commitments and responsibility. You come and go with never a thought for anyone but yourself."

  He caught hold of her wrist, bringing her to a halt. "If I did stay, then what?" He felt the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his fingers and dropped the reins to hook an arm around her waist and draw her closer. "Would the black swan stop hissing at me?"

  "Perhaps." She breathed the word softly.

  The Blade was conscious of the sensation of her firmly rounded
breasts against him, and the closeness of her full lips. They parted slightly as her breathing quickened. He was only curious, he told himself when he bent his head to claim them.

  Her lips were softer than he had expected, yet sharp with the taste of green apples. He wanted to tunnel into them and lick away the tart layer to find the sweet. He felt them give beneath his pressure, yet he was the one who felt consumed.

  Perched on a half-rotten log, Eliza tugged at her stocking. It stuck to her damp foot, resisting her efforts to pull it on. By the time she won her battle with it, she felt as hot and sticky as she had before she had waded in the cool waters of the brook.

  She pulled on her ankle-high walking shoes. When she bent to tighten their laces, a pin fell out of her hair. She immediately felt the sagging weight of her hair threaten to tumble free from its bun. Hastily, she scooped up the pin and tried to anchor it back in place.

  The rumble of wheels and plodding hooves came from the lane next to the brook. Eliza frowned, certain it was much too early for the slaves to be coming back from the fields. But it wasn't the farm wagon she saw when she looked up; it was a horse and buggy accompanied by two riders.

  One of them was Will Gordon. With a gasp of dismay, Eliza felt of her hair, discovering a hundred strands curling free. Why, oh why, had she ever let the children talk her into coming down to the brook to play with them? She was a mess.

  "Father! Father!" Xandra ran out to greet him. Kipp and the other boys instantly abandoned the turtle they had found and dashed after her.

  When Will Gordon glanced in her direction, Eliza knew there was no escape. Hurriedly, she bent over and worked at lacing her shoes, hoping against hope that if she didn't acknowledge him, he wouldn't find it necessary to speak to her.

  She heard the chorus of young voices, all clamoring for his attention, but she was more concerned by the absence of hoof-beats. He had stopped. She refused to look up even though she could feel the blood rushing into her head, making her face feel hotter still.