Tennessee Bride

by Rosanne Bittner

  He was whispering her name now, coming down to hold her close, kissing her face.

  “Oh, that was so wonderful,” he murmured, kissing her hair. “It was even more wonderful than the first time, because I could see you…” he kissed her several times over, “and taste you.” He kissed her again, a deep, probing kiss. “And I knew this time it felt good to you,” he said softly.

  “River!” she whispered, her eyes closed.

  “We will do it again… so many times, Agiya. I am so happy you are well now.”

  “I love you so much, River. I never knew I could feel like this.”

  He caressed her hair, smiling as he rose on one elbow. “My little hunter. You have provided the meat this time. Maybe I should send you on the hunts instead of going myself.”

  She smiled then, reaching up and touching his face. “I think we would end up very hungry.”

  He laughed lightly, running a hand over her belly and massaging it lightly. “We should turn the meat over the fire, and pack the rest. And I have to unload the horses.”

  “I know.”

  Their eyes held for several long seconds. She lifted herself to hug him. “I want to do it again, River. Is that bad?”

  He kissed her neck, moving a hand around and under her left leg, lifting it and bending it toward her body as he moved on top of her again.

  “No, it is not bad,” he whispered. He pressed his mouth to hers and she tasted her own sweetness on his lips as she felt him swelling against her belly. He slid his other arm under her other leg, bending both of them up so that she would be helpless if he wanted her to be. There would be no fighting his power. But she did not want to fight him. In the next moment he invaded her again, while the meat over the fire, unattended, began to blacken, and while the horses grazed, their heavy loads still packed on their backs.

  It took several men with ropes and horses to haul in what was left of the Jasmine. The wreckage was caught along the south bank of the Hiwassee, some of its cargo salvageable, much of it ruined.

  “Easy now!” a settler named Ned Stewart yelled out. A tree branch being sawed to free the upper deck came crashing down. The man in the tree who had been working at the job all morning cheered, and horses tied to the creaking, broken boat pulled the rest of the wreckage onto shore.

  “Somebody is going to have to figure out a way to get the usable stuff down to Knoxville,” Stewart said to the others. “Somebody there ought to know what to do about it. It must belong to someone. Hank always went on to the Tennessee River and on to Knoxville to pick up more cargo.”

  “It’s a shame,” the other man answered. “Hank’s been runnin’ this river for a long time. I wonder who’s going to bring us our supplies now.”

  “Oh, I expect there’s plenty of other people been waitin’ to move in on Hank’s business.”

  Men swarmed over the remains of the boat then to determine what could be saved. The Jasmine had been carried miles downriver before catching along the bank, bits and pieces of it left scattered up the Hiwassee to where it had first begun breaking up, only a few miles east of Luke Simms’s farm.

  All along the Hiwassee people were trying to put their lives back together. Rebuilding had already begun, by strong, determined settlers who refused to let the river defeat them. Graves were dug, some single, some for mass burials. When Jake Decker was finally found, Tommy had already left with Deek for Knoxville. He was not present at the MacBain settlement for his father’s funeral.

  The MacBains, the first to settle there and for whom the settlement had been named, were all dead—the old grandparents, a son and daughters, and both the children’s families. But the MacBain settlement would rise again, as would the Gillmore settlement and all the others that had been devastated by the flood.

  For the moment neither village knew the fate of the Jasmine, which had floated nearly to the town of Calhoun. Wagons were brought up on which cargo that could be saved would be loaded. No one had a boat big enough to take what was left to Knoxville. The slower trip by horse and wagon would have to be made.

  “Hey, Ned!” someone shouted down from the cabin. “He’s here! Hank Toole is still on the boat—at least I think it’s him.”

  Ned Stewart and several others hurried to the wreckage, as a man came out of the cabin holding his nose. “Goddamn, what a smell!” He leaned over and vomited. The odor made Stewart and the others move back again.

  “We have to get him off of there and bury him,” Ned told the others.

  They all pondered how to get the bloated body off the boat. “Why not saw around the floor under him and put ropes under it and lift him out right on the boards,” one of them put in. “Then we don’t have to touch the body. Take a hatchet and chop through the floor at the four corners so’s somebody can stand underneath and know where to saw.”

  “Not a bad idea. Get some hatchets,” Stewart told the man. He looked at the man who had found the body. “You okay, Danny?”

  The man nodded, blinking back tears. “I think so. This sure is a mess, ain’t it?”

  “It’s a mess for a lot of people. I hear it’s worse upriver.”

  Danny looked at Ned Stewart, keeping a hand to his stomach. “Somethin’ ain’t right about this one, Ned. Far as I can see, the cabin area was never under water. I don’t think Hank Toole drowned.”

  Ned frowned, looking toward the cabin. “Maybe he got tossed around some, hit his head or something.”

  Danny ran a hand through his hair. “I could swear there’s blood all over the front of him. And on his face, too, like somebody scratched him or somethin’. It’s hard to tell, he’s so swelled up. But I swear it don’t look like natural injuries from no accident.”

  “I’ll have a look.” Ned folded his arm over his nose and mouth before going inside the cabin to see Hank’s body lying flat on its back, swollen and blue. The man wore only the bottom half of long underwear, and the swelling and color from death did not hide the obvious dried blood all over his chest. There was an odd, gaping wound in the center of the chest, and the man’s eyes were still open, as though staring in terror. There were lines of blood down his face, and more dried blood around one ear and down his neck.

  Ned ducked out, choking and gagging. He breathed deeply of the fresh air. “You’re right. We have to study it some more, Danny, in spite of his condition. If this is more than just an accident, we have to report it to somebody, at least in Calhoun, maybe in Knoxville.”

  Danny nodded. “What about his nigger? You think he could have done it?”

  Ned shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t believe any man would be that stupid.”

  “Well, he ain’t been found. He might have thought he could use the flood to cover it. Maybe he decided to run off.”

  “If he did, he’ll be found, and he’ll have some explainin’ to do.”

  Men returned with hatchets and saws. One wrapped a cloth around his nose and mouth, tucked sassafras branches under it to prevent his smelling the odor of decay, then went into the cabin and chopped around the body, with a hatchet while another man went below deck to find the hatchet marks which told him where to begin sawing. The man with the hatchet came out gagging and pulled off the covering over his mouth.

  “Ned! He looks like he’s been stabbed.”

  Ned looked at Danny. “Ain’t much doubt about it now.” He sighed and shook his head. “Ain’t this a strange twist of events? We got enough to do just cleanin’ up this mess without havin’ to figure out whether Hank Toole has been murdered and who could have done it.”

  “Murdered! You think he’s been murdered?” the third man asked Ned.

  “How the hell else would he get a stab wound, Davie?”

  “He could have fell against somethin’ sharp.”

  Ned shook his head. “No. He was in some kind of fight. There’s blood and scratches around his head. And he wasn’t even dressed.”

  The one called Davie looked back tow
ard the cabin, making a face. “Maybe his slave did it—waited till the man was sleepin’.”

  “Yeah, but why would Hank be sleepin’ in the middle of a ragin’ flood?” Danny put in. “That don’t make sense. I just don’t understand why he didn’t have nothin’ on but his underwear.”

  The three men stood pondering the situation while another man sawed around the body and more entered the cabin to rig ropes around the floorboards, preparing to lift the body once the man below had completed sawing around it.

  Tommy Decker and Deek Malone rode through what was once Luke Simms’s farm. Nothing looked familiar.

  “I’ll be damned,” Tommy commented.

  Deek whistled in wonder. “Ain’t nothin’ left at all.”

  Tommy curled his nose. “Sure stinks everywhere, don’t it? We’re gonna have to head a ways away from the river, Deek. Too many dead animals.”

  “And humans. You think Luke’s around here someplace?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Maybe Emma, too. Maybe Hank never stopped to pick her up on account of the storm.”

  Tommy studied the barren farm. The only thing remaining was a fence post and a few rocks that were once the foundation for the cabin.

  “I don’t think Hank would have missed his chance at that one,” Tommy said. “He probably wanted a whack at her himself. I remember him looking at Emma once when I was there. Licked his lips like she was sugar.”

  They both grinned. “I wonder if Hank made it, Tommy,” Deek said then.

  “I sure hope so. I’m goin’ to Knoxville for one thing, and that’s to get a piece of Emma Simms.”

  “Well, let’s get goin’ and see if she’s there,” Deek answered with a wink.

  They rode for several more yards, then saw the body sprawled in a bush.

  “God damn!” Tommy made a face and backed his horse. He recognized the old cotton pants and the black beard. “It’s him! It’s Luke!”

  “Damn.” Deek stared. “Shouldn’t we bury him?”

  Tommy turned his horse. “Are you kidding? Let’s get out of here.” He headed up a hill. Deek stared at Luke’s dead and bloated body for a moment longer, then turned and followed.

  Chapter 11

  Emma and River Joe had traveled for another week since leaving the campsite where she had killed the wild boar. That whole week she had known nothing but beauty, in the arms of River Joe. She had lost count of how many times they had made love, and just as he had promised, each time had been less painful, until now it was such ecstasy that it seemed almost sinful. But it wasn’t sinful. River was her husband.

  Her mother had told her that a woman was not supposed to enjoy mating. It was simply a duty one had to put up with to satisfy a man’s needs and give him children. But River had taught her otherwise. Mating with the one you loved was as natural and right as breathing the air. Enjoying it was good, for the Maker of Breath wanted them to be together. And a baby conceived in love would be a healthy, beautiful child. She wondered if her mother had had so many miscarriages because none of the babies was conceived in joy and love. She felt very sorry that her mother had never known a man like River Joe.

  A squirrel ran up a nearby hickory tree, and Emma felt the happiness returning to her soul when River held her in his arms. She breathed deeply of his now-familiar scent, kissing his neck.

  “I love you, River.”

  He grinned, pulling back a little, kissing her forehead. “You are ready to go on?”

  She nodded. “I’ll get dressed and make us something to eat.” She started to rise, but he reached under the long shirt she wore, pulling her back down to the bedroll, in one quick moment pushing up the shirt and moving on top of her. He had slept naked, as he usually did, and she felt him pressing against her belly.

  “River! We just woke up.”

  “So? A woman looks more beautiful than ever in the morning, when her hair is loose and free and her body is still warm from sleep. There are no rules for when a man and woman should make love, Agiya.” He leaned closer, kissing her neck, and she could think of no reason to protest. The newness of their relationship was still thrilling, and she was sure in her heart it would always be this way.

  She gasped as he slid into her, groaning with his own delight. She had already learned that doing this was never the same. Each time was different and wonderful in its own way. This time he had not even toyed with her first. He was simply inside her, and she felt wonderful sensations building, heightened by the fact that he wanted her so readily, and by the beauty of the sunny morning. He moved a little differently, rubbing that spot he sometimes teased with his fingers or tongue, and now the wonderful explosion came without his touching her that way at all.

  Her insides ached with it, and she pulled at him fiercely then as she arched up to greet him. They moved wildly, rhythmically, and she lost all touch with the outside world. There was only River, his broad shoulders and long hair and strong arms, his big hands and warm lips. He fed her ecstasy for several minutes before finally releasing his own prolonged climax, pushing several times as his life spilled into her.

  When he relaxed, they lay quietly, listening to the birds.

  “Of all the gifts from the Maker of Breath, this is the most wonderful,” she said softly. “Giving my husband his pleasure, taking so much pleasure in return, making love under the warm sun with only the birds and the squirrels to see.”

  He kissed her neck. “I love you, Agiya. The desire was just so strong in me.”

  “I know. You didn’t hear me argue for long, did you?”

  He laughed lightly then, pulling away from her. “You lie still while I make a fire and heat some water so you can wash. Then we will eat and we must be on our way.”

  She watched him walk to a nearby creek, watched the muscles of his bare buttocks and strong thighs, sure that no more beautiful man could be found in all of Tennessee. She wasn’t embarrassed to look at him anymore, and she gazed at him with delight as he returned with a bucket of water and knelt to light a fire with flint and steel.

  “Will your people be hard to find, River?”

  “Could be. I hope they are still where I left them. But if not, I’ll have to track them down. Their main goal is to keep from being found by raiders. The place where they were camped when I left has been peaceful for quite some time now. But even this high up there are a few white settlements and enough Indian haters that the Cherokee have to be careful. If they are found, they will be harassed all over again and will have to move on. Some want to go to New Echota, where it is supposedly safer; but most consider this part of Tennessee their home and they do not want to go to Georgia, even though so many have settled there.”

  “Maybe we should go there.”

  “Maybe. But I consider Tennessee home, too. New Echota is quite advanced, they say—schools and all—and they are talking about starting a newspaper of their own, printed in both Cherokee and English. John Ross lives there part of the time.”

  “Tell me more about John Ross. You mentioned him once before. He must be an important man.”

  “He is one of the Cherokee’s more educated leaders. He has begun waging a court battle to allow the Cherokee in Tennessee and northern Georgia to be allowed to stay there, maybe even declare their own state, as I already told you.” He watched the fire flicker and begin to burn. “John Ross feels the only hope the Cherokee have is to do everything legally, through the courts. That way no one can touch them. The secret is not to fight back when we are raided.”

  He looked over at her. She lay with a blanket pulled over her, watching him lovingly. How pretty she looked in the morning, her hair like a white halo spread about her.

  “It is so hard for me not to fight back,” he said then, turning back to the fire and adding some sticks. “I want to kill all of those bastards—slowly! But I refuse to make matters worse for the people who loved me and raised me as their own. I would have died if they had not found
me and taken me in.”

  “But why can’t you fight back, River? It’s the natural thing to do. The raiders have no business doing what they do.”

  “I know. But the minute we raise a hand in defense, they will say we are at war, and then they will come in greater numbers and bring soldiers. They will say that because we have chosen war, we deserve no say before Congress or the courts, that we have no rights left at all. If we do everything just as legally and properly as we can, there is a chance we will win this thing. But this way is very hard on the Cherokee men, who take pride in protecting their own.”

  She sighed deeply. “It isn’t fair.”

  He rose, setting the bucket of water over the fire and walking over to his supply sack. He took out a cloth and walked back to the water. “A lot of things are not fair,” he answered. “Like the way you had to grow up.” He dipped the cloth into the water. “And like me having to wash in this cold water so I can start getting our things together, while you get to wait until the water is warmer.” He held the cold cloth to his privates and made a face, and Emma giggled.

  “It was all your idea,” she reminded him. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

  He washed himself and came back to his supply sack for a clean loincloth, made of softened doeskin. “Maybe it was my idea, maybe it was not. Women have a way of talking men into things without their realizing what is going on.”

  She reddened and snuggled into the blanket. “This time was different, and you know it. I was getting up to get dressed, remember?”

  He finished tying the loincloth, grinning then. “I remember.” He reached down and yanked away the blanket. She screamed and quickly pulled down her shirt, then giggled as he tickled her, curling up against the teasing fingers. He stopped then and bent down to kiss her.