Say You Love Me

by Patricia Hagan

  "Stop worrying, Michael. I promise you I'll take care of her." She patted his hand, thrilled, as always, at the chance to touch him.

  As soon as the carriage rolled down the driveway in the early morning mist, Elyse hurried to the overseers' cabins, which were situated directly behind the stables. She worried that she would not be able to find Zach Newton but then she saw him leading his horse, saddlebags packed, out of one of the barns.

  Zach recognized her as one of Blake's relatives and slowed, wondering what the hell she wanted as she came straight toward him. She was pretty and he liked red-haired women. She had a nice shape, too. He could tell by the dress she was wearing—the waist was tight, accenting her bosom.

  "You're Mr. Newton, aren't you?"

  "That's right." His gaze roved over her, and he hated Blake even more for running him off. There were lots of tasty morsels around Red Oakes, just waiting to be sampled.

  "I'm Miss Elyse Burdette of Charleston," she informed him, then recited the story she had hastily invented. "I overheard Mr. Blake saying he had told you that your services are no longer needed here at Red Oakes."

  "How does that concern you? Is he sendin' a woman to make sure I'm leavin'?" he asked, snickering.

  She ignored his question. "Do you have another job in mind?"

  "No," he replied slowly, curiosity piqued. "But I'll find somethin' around here. It's cotton pickin' time, and good overseers are needed. I do happen to be a good one, regardless of what Mr. Blake might think," he added with a little sneer.

  That was exactly what she was afraid of, Elyse thought, that he would stay in the area, and she could not allow that. He could not be seen anywhere around, not if her scheme was to work. She handed him a folded sheet of paper.

  He opened it and read as she explained, "That's a map showing you the way to the Owen Kernsby plantation in Beaufort, South Carolina. Mr. Kernsby was a close friend of my father. And here is a letter asking him to do me the favor of giving you a job. I am sure he will honor it. The last time I saw him he mentioned he was always in need of good overseers, because his plantation is quite large."

  Zach took the envelope but asked suspiciously, "How come you're doin' this? How come you give a damn?"

  She gave a careless shrug. "Mr. Kernsby needs workers, and you need a job. What other reason would I have?"

  He grinned. "Well, now, that's real nice of you, Miss Burdette." He tipped his hat. "I'll just get on down that way, and I'm sure beholden to you."

  She bid him a safe journey and was about to walk away when he said, "By the way, you tell Miss Jacie I appreciate what she did. She'll know what I'm talkin' about. And if she ever wants to find me, you tell her where you sent me, all right?"

  Elyse stiffened to think he could be so brazen but was not about to annoy him with a tart response. Instead, she managed to say sweetly, "Why, you can be sure I'll do that, Mr. Newton. I know the two of you are good friends."

  She hurried back to the house, waiting till she was out of his sight to start laughing aloud with glee.

  It was time, she felt like shouting to the whole world, to let everyone believe that Jacie Calhoun had run away with Zach Newton.

  * * *

  Texas

  Iris went with the others to meet the returning braves. And while wives and children greeted husbands and fathers, Iris held out her arms to the young man she loved as a son.

  "Thank God, you're safe," she whispered against his broad shoulder as they embraced. She stood back to clasp his hands and drink in the sight of him. "You must be starved. Come. I will fix you something to eat, and you can tell me everything."

  While feasting on roasted elk, Luke described the results of his scouting the past few weeks. He had left the hunters to see what was going on around the forts. "I'm afraid things are getting worse," he told her. "Ever since the Texas Ranger Rip Ford killed Iron Jacket and defeated his band in the spring, the soldiers get more daring. There is much bloodshed."

  "And our band only wants peace," she murmured sadly, daring to suggest, "Maybe we should turn ourselves in to the Brazos Reserve before they attack and kill all of us."

  "No!"

  She jumped at the fierceness of his reply.

  His face was a thundercloud of anger. "I would rather die, and have my people die, than go there. The reservations are nothing but a living death. And something else—I learned that the reason the soldiers are able to make so many raids on the Comanche is because Rip Ford was able to convince over a hundred Tonkawa to scout for him after the Texas governor Runnels put him in command of all the state's forces."

  Iris was aware that for the past three years, since 1855, the advancing line of settlement in Texas had tightened around the Clear Fork and Brazos reserves. Until his death, Great Bear had been forced to keep the tribe moving to avoid trouble, because they had found themselves caught between two fires: The Indians who wanted war with the white man despised them, and the whites didn't care which tribe was which; they considered them all savages.

  "I had hoped," Iris said, "that when we moved after Great Bear's death we could settle in for the winter, but I have a feeling you're about to tell me that isn't possible."

  "That's right. We have to move farther north. I stayed at Bird's Fort a few days and found out the Second Cavalry has been ordered to march into the Wichita Mountains of Oklahoma with four companies of cavalry and one on foot. They're setting up a base camp between the Canadian and the Red rivers."

  "That isn't far from here," she said, alarmed.

  "Not far enough for us to feel safe. I've made the decision to have the camp moved north of the Red, deep into Indian Territory. You will start tomorrow."

  Iris and Luke were very close. She knew him so well and now sensed he was keeping something from her. "But there's more, isn't there? Something you don't want to tell me."

  He was silent for a moment. He hated to worry her but knew she would fret even more if she thought he was holding back. "It's Black Serpent." He bit out the name.

  Iris tensed. For a long time, there had been bad feelings between Luke and Black Serpent, caused by a young maiden named Singing Waters. Black Serpent had chosen Singing Waters for his wife and had followed the custom of giving her father a horse and other gifts. Singing Waters, however, had rejected Black Serpent, for it was her intent to marry Luke.

  There was chaos then. When Black Serpent heard of the rejection, and the reason, he had challenged Luke to fight for the girl. But Luke was not interested in marrying her, even though Iris knew Singing Waters had been slipping into his tepee every night for several weeks. Many young Indian maidens went to him, but he never seemed to encourage any of them.

  Great Bear had decreed there would be no fight, and Singing Waters's father decreed the horse and gifts from Black Serpent would be accepted and she would marry him, but Singing Waters refused and eventually married someone else, which only added to Black Serpent's humiliation. He blamed everything on Luke, and Iris had always worried there would be trouble between them sooner or later. "What has he done?" she asked warily.

  Luke described how they had come upon a small patrol of soldiers. The soldiers did not see them, so Luke, wanting to avoid trouble, signaled to his braves to stay hidden and let the soldiers pass unharmed. Black Serpent, however, had wanted to show off. He had also wanted to make coup. So he had attacked the four soldiers, who immediately ran from the advancing, screaming man. He had run one down, killed him, and taken his scalp.

  Iris closed her eyes against the image of such horror. "Oh, Lord, why does it have to be this way? Why can't there be peace?"

  "One day, perhaps there will be. Till then, we can only try to avoid fighting. That's why I have decided to take Gold Elk and Sharp Knife and keep an eye on things at Bird's Fort for a while, to try and head off trouble. We'll join you at winter camp later."

  "And what about Black Serpent? With you gone, he'll try to take over our band."

  "We don't have to worry about him anymore. I
banished him."

  "Oh, no. How many went with him?" She knew there were some men who sided with Black Serpent in his lust for blood.

  "A few. But it's just as well. I don't want their kind, and I can't have a warrior who won't follow orders. To allow him to stay weakens me in the eyes of my people. I couldn't let that happen. He was just waiting for an excuse to take his followers and go off on his own."

  Iris had been so happy to see Luke and listening so intently to everything he was saying that she had not noticed how he was dressed. Now she realized he was wearing a skin shirt, which puzzled her, because the men went bare-chested in warm weather. Then she saw the dark stain below his shoulder and cried, "You're bleeding."

  He shrugged it off. "A small wound. It's nothing."

  "Let me see." She opened his shirt over his protests. With skilled fingers she removed the poultice of weeds and grass he had packed in the wound to try and stop the bleeding. Relieved to see it was not deep, she said, "Black Serpent cut you, didn't he? I'm surprised you didn't kill him."

  "I gave him a worse fate—having to live with the scar my knife left on his face. You know how vain he is."

  She knew, as everyone did, that Black Serpent considered himself very handsome.

  "It's not serious, I tell you," Luke protested when she brought out her herbs and bandages to treat and dress the wound properly.

  "And we will see that it heals, but it is going to leave a scar."

  "To go with the others." He grinned. Through the years, Luke had had his share of injuries from combat with both man and beast. "You women are lucky your scars are few."

  "Oh, some of us have many. But we carry them in our souls, where they aren't seen."

  He became silent as she fussed over him, and when she was finished he put an arm around her affectionately and said, "I don't like to think of the scars you carry on your soul, Mother. I wish I could turn back time and take away the sorrow you've had to live with. It would never have happened if my people had thought then as they do now."

  They had spoken of the terrible thing that had brought them together only rarely. It was something Iris had tried, without success, to forget. Now she wished she had not said what she had about scars within, for it triggered the painful memory for both of them.

  "I don't like to think of how you came to me," he went on, "but I'm glad that you did. You've taught me so much. Without you, I would never have learned to cherish peace, because we both know my father only allowed me to go away to school due to your influence. Now I can't wait to take all my people there come spring. We're going to have a good life. You'll see."

  "You know, if you keep scouting instead of spending time with the young women, you aren't going to find a wife. I shouldn't be the one to worry constantly about you and take care of you."

  He laughed. "You don't mind. And as for worrying, you'd do that, anyway. Besides, why do you think I prefer the forts? The women there are all married to soldiers. I don't have to worry about losing my freedom."

  "One day it will happen," she warned him happily, "When you least expect it. Love can be found anywhere, my son. You just have to open your eyes so you can see it."

  Closing his eyes, he pretended to stumble around blindly. "Then I'll keep them shut, because the last thing I need is another woman telling me what to do."

  Laughing, she chased him from the tepee, all the while thinking how the lucky girl he eventually chose for a wife would have herself a fine man—and how proud she was to have been a part of making him so.

  Chapter 10

  In the twenty years since the forced march of the Indians that fateful winter of 1838-39, new trails had been forged by Cherokee slipping away to return to their beloved Great Smoky Mountains. Though skirting around impossible heights was necessary, as well as crossing unchallenged rivers, Mehlonga was determined he would not lead Jacie on the original and lengthy Trail of Tears. Mehlonga wanted to reach their destination before the onset of winter.

  They raised few eyebrows when they passed through a settlement town, looking like a father and daughter traveling west. Jacie had convinced Mehlonga they could avoid trouble from Indian haters if he replaced the bandanna around his head with a straw hat. Reluctantly he agreed, and nothing else about his costume gave hint he was Cherokee. He wore an old black coat, trousers and a dingy white shirt.

  The weather was good most of the time, so they camped in the open. Rain drove them to seek shelter in caves or beneath rocky overhangs. Occasionally they happened upon Indian farmers, who welcomed them and gave them the chance to wash their clothing, sleep in a real bed, and eat a home-cooked meal.

  But Jacie liked the camping nights best. During the day, riding behind Mehlonga, there was no opportunity for conversation. At night, however, after a meal of dried corn and, if luck was with them, a roasted rabbit or squirrel, Mehlonga would light his pipe and settle back, and Jacie would listen eagerly as he spun the tales she found so fascinating.

  One night when they had been on the road nearly two weeks, Mehlonga recounted the stories that had filtered back from Indian Territory of how his people had joined four other tribes—the Creek, Chickasaw, Choctaw, and Seminole, all of whom had also been forcibly removed from the Southeast by the government in the 1830s.

  Nearly fourteen thousand Cherokee had died, Mehlonga said. "So they should have been a broken people. But from all I have heard, they rallied, and they have built a prosperous society.

  "We always felt we were cultured," he went on to say. "We lived in log cabins. We wore homespun clothes. We tended livestock and plowed fields with oxen. Some of our people even married whites, and tribal leaders could read and write English and comprehend the law. So it was not surprising to hear that the survivors of the march restored their way of government.

  "Once"—he smiled with pride—"I even saw a newspaper they had printed at their capital in Tahlequah. It was in English, as well as our own language. It was called the Cherokee Advocate. They have schools there, too, for both men and women."

  Jacie had eagerly learned what was known as the Cherokee syllabary, a script used for writing the Cherokee language. It had been devised by a half-Cherokee named Sequoyah and had spread rapidly. In a short time, she was able to write it fluidly but kept her knowledge to herself. Her parents would not have liked it, and neither would Michael. His mother would have succumbed to the vapors to know her future daughter-in-law was scholarly in the Indian way.

  "What do you think you'll do when you get there?" Jacie asked.

  Mehlonga stared into the fire for a few moments, then said with resignation, "Die."

  "Don't say that."

  "And why not? To die is only to go from one place to another. I have no fear of dying. No Cherokee does. But until the spirits call me, I will do what I can for my people with my medicine. And I will try to find my relatives. A brother may still be alive, and my sister. If they have gone ahead of me to that other place, then I will find their children. I will have family again. And so will you," he said with a confident nod.

  Jacie's heart skipped a beat, like always, to think her mother might still be alive. "You think I will find her, don't you?"

  "Not many have eyes like you. Not many white women live among the Comanche, at least not in favor. They make slaves of prisoners, but they must have treated the white woman well or she would not have returned to them willingly."

  "Tell me what you know about the Comanche."

  "They are fierce. And deadly. But there is a story about how they befriended the great Sequoyah. He was in their territory looking for a remnant of the Cherokee, and his party's horses were stolen by Tewockenees Indians, so they built a raft to cross a river. Comanche saw them, and because they were wearing caps, thought they were Texans and were going to kill them. Then someone noticed they had feathers in their caps. So they helped them, gave them food, horses, and sent them on their way. So the Comanche are not all bad.”

  "I want you to promise me something," he went on. "I
f there is no one at this place called Bird's Fort that will help you, I want you to go home. It is too dangerous for you to stay and search on your own."

  "I won't make such a promise," Jacie said stubbornly. "I didn't make this trip to turn around and go back without doing everything possible to find out the truth, Mehlonga. You know that."

  "I suppose I do. That is why I have decided to give you this." He drew a knife from inside his coat and held it out to her. "I will teach you to defend yourself."

  Jacie stared down at the wicked-looking blade gleaming in the fire's glow. It felt heavy in her hand, and unnatural. She decided she was afraid of it, and her hand began to tremble.

  "You will learn to hold it with a steady hand, just as you will learn to use it with skill and cunning. Every night from now on when we stop to make camp, I will teach you. By the time we reach Fort Smith, I will not worry about leaving you to go my own way."

  Jacie did not want to think about the time when they would part, but Mehlonga had made it clear that he would go no farther with her than Fort Smith, Arkansas. He would make sure she had an escort to take her on to Bird's Fort, while he continued on to the Cherokee capital known as Tahlequah, where he hoped to find whatever was left of his family.

  "You will be as good as any warrior with the knife," he predicted.

  "Do you think I will need it against the Comanche?"

  "Be prepared to defend yourself against anyone who would do you harm, my child. Look not at the color of his skin but to his eyes, where the evil in a man's heart is revealed."

  It was already dark, but Mehlonga showed her the way to grip the knife, how to strap it to her leg beneath her skirt to conceal it, and then how to whip it out at a second's notice. When she was skilled at that, he would teach her how to cut—and kill.

  "I want you also to have this." He handed her a piece of soft deerskin that had been folded into a tiny square, hardly bigger than her thumb. Inside she found small seeds, hard and black.