Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  It was unbearable. She’d wasted enough time. She’d only been here days, but it felt like weeks. And the nights seemed an entire season of moons.

  Intense frustration ate at her. But wasn’t that her own fault? she asked herself. Because it didn’t have to be this way. She knew where her father lived, and she knew where Amanda and Aunt Camilla lived. And they now knew she was alive and here. Beyond that—it had been obvious this afternoon—they knew. Knew what? Taylor couldn’t even articulate it for herself. But they knew. And Aunt Camilla had wanted to tell her, but without Amanda being present. Then she would go to Aunt Camilla’s and talk to her in private. It was that simple. Or maybe she would go to her father. He would know. He did know. These elders of hers had lived the lies that had kept Taylor away from them all, but especially away from Amanda, a girl she loved as a sister.

  Taylor paused for a moment, on the apron of ground out front of the barn. Maybe she should go get Amanda and the two of them would leave this place of the whites. Taylor grinned … but then her next thought slumped her, killing that grandiose scheme. Amanda would not go. She was white, too. This was her home and she would soon marry a white man. Grey’s brother.

  It occurred to Taylor again that despite how close she and her cousin had been as children, they no longer were. They were both grown women who had grown apart. But still, Taylor loved her and what they had been to each other. She recalled now how she had always secretly wished she could be more like Amanda. More genteel and loving, more open and trusting. But her life in the Nation had not allowed her to be those things. Or maybe it was more that she, because of choices she had made, hadn’t allowed it.

  Taylor shook her head, arguing with herself as she entered the barn and called out to Red Sky, who instantly answered with a loud whinny. A few heads popped up over the stalls—men’s and horses’. Once the hands recognized her, they didn’t challenge her but went quickly back to their jobs. And that was good. Taylor headed in the direction of Red Sky’s whinny. The sound told her he was still in the same stall. As she turned to her left and worked her way through the barn, it struck Taylor that she was as locked away in Greyson Talbott’s house as Red Sky was in the barn. Her horse was not used to such restrictions. Neither was she.

  It seemed, then, that she still made bad choices. She had certainly made a mistake in giving her body to Grey. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed him. She had. Even now she could feel the play of his warm, hard muscles under her hands. Even now she could taste his kiss, could feel the heat of his body as he came into her and made them one. Such thrusts and power, such skill. Thinking about it now, Taylor all but whistled out her breath. Greyson Talbott knew his way around her woman’s body. His touch alone shivered her in her most private places. His kiss melted her heart. And his mouth … oh, his mouth. He was wickedly good.

  Taylor shivered, forcing herself out of the bed and the tangle of naked bodies she saw in her mind. She should never have told him she loved him. At least her parting words earlier had been in her language and he would not know what they meant. She hadn’t even known she meant them, or felt them, herself until they’d slipped past her lips. So it was just as well that they’d been spoken in Cherokee. Still, she was surprised at herself. She’d never before told anyone—not even that yellow-belly dog Monroe Hammer—that she loved him. And now, after knowing this white man for no more than three days … she loved him? No. It wasn’t true. She’d just been overcome for a moment, seized by a shard of need, one she wouldn’t give in to again.

  Taylor approached Red Sky and abandoned her thoughts of love. The horse greeted her excitedly, nodding his great head and stamping a hoof. Taylor whispered words of endearment in Cherokee to the great animal. Then she entered his stall, quickly saddled him, and led him outside. There, with the sun sitting low in the western sky, with the heavens streaked red and pink, Taylor mounted up and turned Red Sky toward the open coach yard gate. Digging her heels into Red Sky’s sides, she urged him into a trot. They turned out of the gate and went to the left, toward the homes of her white family. She still had no idea which one she would approach first. Her father. Or her aunt.

  But either way, and today, she would have answers. She was especially interested in learning why Aunt Camilla had called Taylor’s mother her Indian mother. Why would this woman who had lived with The People for such a long and loving time say such a demeaning thing about her sister of the heart?

  Chapter Fourteen

  No spying eyes. No prying ears. That was what Grey sought. Neutral ground. Thus, the night was right for meeting at their social club. Charles had immediately answered Grey’s note from late that afternoon, after Taylor had gone to her room, asking Charles to meet him here. So here they were now.

  The carpeted gaming room where they had secreted themselves was shot through with masculine decor. Dark wood wainscoting graced the thick walls. The gold- and green-flecked wallpaper above it calmed the senses. But the air was close and stuffy, reminiscent of the smoke of countless cigars. The heavy velvet draperies were drawn against the dark outside. And the door was shut and locked. No one would interrupt them.

  All around Grey and Charles were neat groupings of felt-topped card tables and empty chairs. Grey stood to one side of the room, leaning an elbow against an old upright piano. In his hand, he held a whiskey. The bottle and another glass sat atop a table across the way. Charles hadn’t wanted a drink. The only thing he nursed right now was a tremendous anger at Grey.

  “Why are you working so hard to keep my daughter from me, Grey? You alone of all people know what she means to me. You know how I feel, how broken I’ve been because—”

  “Spare me,” Grey drawled as he moved away from the piano and went to perch a hip atop a card table, leaving his leg to dangle. “I thought I knew what she meant to you, Charles. I really did. Until today. I really expected you to be forthcoming with me this afternoon while the women were outside. But instead you launch into some fatherly diatribe on my behavior with your daughter.”

  “I have every right to question you, Grey. She is a young, unmarried girl living under your roof. You’re not exactly the most acceptable of chaperons.”

  “I hold the same high opinion of myself on that score, Charles. Still, we’ve already been through this. I’ve told you how it occurred that she came to be in my keeping. She was approaching your door the night of the party for Franklin and Amanda, I intercepted her … and the rest you know. Except allow me to say that you’re a little late to be showing fatherly concern for her. According to her, you’ve made no effort to see her since she was a child.”

  Charles’s expression contorted into one of pain. “If you’ll recall, Grey, I made no effort because I believed her to be long dead. Then I find out she’s been alive all this time, only to think I’d lost her again to a hanging. And this morning—for God’s sake, man—I find out she’s alive and here in St. Louis in your keeping. Just what in the hell do you want from me?”

  “The truth, Charles.”

  “I have told you the truth, Grey—the truth as I’ve known it to be. I swear it. But I will say that even had I known Taylor was alive all these years, I would not have dared to acknowledge that she was. I would not have dared to try to see her.”

  “Now see there? What exactly does that mean … you wouldn’t have dared? What reason could possibly be good enough to keep a loving father away from his only child? It can’t be because her mother is Cherokee and Taylor’s a half-breed. After all, you had a hand—as it were—in that. So it’s not that. But what is it, then? Your own guilt at having such a child? Or perhaps your guilt at leaving her mother in the manner you did? Or both?”

  Charles’s blond coloring heightened to a fiery red. He bared his teeth in an angry grimace and fisted his hands, stalking around in a small circle before finally striking a felt tabletop. He then pointed threateningly at Grey. “Dammit, you go too far. You don’t understand. And you’re way out of line, my friend.”

  Grey stood up, lea
ving his whiskey glass on the table. “Friend. That’s interesting. You see, when Taylor first arrived here, I kept her from you to protect you until I could prove or disprove her story. But now, I find myself in the reverse position of protecting her from you. So, dammit, Charles, help me here. Believe me, I’ve been your staunchest supporter in this business. But on the very day that you welcome home your daughter—after thinking her dead twice over—Camilla offers her money to go away. Can you explain that to me? And please don’t be tiresome by saying you didn’t know she would do that or that none of this is my business. I’ve made it my business.”

  Charles’s anger seemed to melt away, leaving him looking his fifty-odd years or more. He looked down and away from Grey. With stumbling steps he pulled out a leather-cushioned chair and sat heavily. He put his elbows on the table and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I didn’t know Camilla would do that; I swear it. I know why she did, though. But you have to understand, Camilla had lied to me about Taylor being alive. I truly believed my daughter to be long dead. But now, Grey, she’s here … and she’s in great danger. Great danger.”

  Grey felt as if his throat were closing. He could barely swallow. Grabbing up his shot glass—he felt certain he was going to need fortifying—he quickly weaved his way around the tables and went to sit facing Charles. He sat his glass on the table. “Charles, are you telling me that Camilla James has always known Taylor was alive and she kept that from you?”

  “Yes.” Charles had his hands over his face, so the word was muffled but adamant.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Her fear that I would go get Taylor or inadvertently give away, by word or deed, that she lived.”

  Grey ran a hand over his mouth. “Jesus. What business would it be of hers if you did? Taylor’s your child, not hers.”

  Charles lowered his hands from his face, which was splotchy with emotion. “She did it to protect Taylor.”

  “From you?” A cold dread filled Grey. Had he perhaps missed some deep insanity here? Or a sickness of the soul that would have a father misusing his daughter?

  “No, Grey. Not from me. I love my child. I would never harm her. But there is someone who could.” He hit his fist against the tabletop. “I wish to God she had never come here. I fear we can’t keep her safe.”

  Grey clutched at Charles’s sleeve. “Yes, we can. And we will. But let me tell you why she’s here. Her mother sent her to you.”

  Charles frowned. “Her mother?”

  “Yes. The hard truth is, Charles—and you already know this—your daughter was sentenced to hang for murder. However, you may not know the details. She says she didn’t kill the man for whose death she was supposed to hang. And she tells me she was broken out of jail by her uncle the day before she was to hang. Furthermore, your daughter has killed three other men. But she assures me they deserved it.”

  Charles stared dumbfounded at Grey. “My little girl is certainly far from an innocent young miss.”

  “Yes, she is. But only in some ways.” Grey wasn’t about to divulge in what other ways Taylor was no innocent, but he did add, “In others, she’s very naive.”

  Charles shook his head, wonderingly. “Camilla was right to try to get Taylor to leave.”

  “Camilla.” Grey said her name in a considering manner. “So her emotional performance last night, her crying over the long-lost Taylor was just that? A performance?”

  Charles shook his head no and grimaced, rushing to Camilla’s defense. “No. It was genuine. Although she knew Taylor to have been alive all these years—”

  “How did she know and you didn’t?”

  “She never told me until today, but she’s corresponded with Tennie Nell Christie.”

  “Christie? Taylor’s … mother, then, I take it?”

  Charles stared at Grey a moment, then nodded. “She raised her.”

  “I see. We were talking about Camilla.”

  “Yes. Her emotion was—is—genuine. She loves Taylor very much. Last night was real. At that point we had no idea Taylor had escaped hanging and was here, remember. So Camilla’s sadness at her death was genuine, I assure you. But those other things Camilla said … well, she had to say them like that, about believing Taylor to have been dead all along. To acknowledge otherwise could have unleashed terrible trouble. Terrible.”

  Grey liked this conversation less and less. It was confirming too many things for him that he already had feared. “Charles, listen to me.” He waited, making sure Charles was giving him his full attention. “Did Camilla have to behave that way because in that room with us last night was the person or persons who would want to see Taylor dead?”

  Charles’s expression could only be called bleak. “I fear so, Grey.”

  A hopeless, helpless rage leached Grey’s strength and took all joy in being alive from him. Taylor’d been right when she’d said that if his happy world toppled with her truths, it was because his world had been built on lies. He felt sick and cold. “I’ve suspected as much, Charles. Believe me, I have. Just tell me what is going on and how to help. I do want to help.”

  Charles crossed his arms atop the table and slanted a look to Grey. For a few silent seconds, he roved his gaze—so similar to Taylor’s—over Grey’s features. “You do care very much for her, don’t you?”

  Tight-lipped, grim, Grey exhaled and nodded. “Very much, Charles. More than I should. More than I have a right to feel. I’ve only known her for three days, but that seems to have been enough. Because I do. I care very much.”

  Charles squeezed Grey’s hand in a gesture of fatherly affection. “I thought so. And I’m glad. I am. She generally has that effect on people. Very quickly, almost upon meeting her, you either hate her or love her. She invites no namby-pamby feelings on anyone’s part, I assure you.”

  That was quite the odd speech. Grey tilted his head at a questioning angle. “How do you know, Charles, what effect she has on people? You haven’t seen her in eleven years.” He watched the effect of his words on Charles, saw the emotions roving over the older man’s face.

  “No, I haven’t. But when I told Camilla today about Taylor being here, that was when she confessed that she knew Taylor was alive and showed me her letters from Tennie. That’s how I know the effect my daughter has on people. It’s nothing more sinister than that. I do wish you would believe me, Grey.”

  Grey’s jaw tightened. His hands fisted. “I’m trying, Charles. But tell me, who the hell is sending all these messages flying around St. Louis about Taylor? Do you have any idea?”

  Charles shook his head. “I don’t. Well, except for the one about her being hanged. That came from Tennie Nell. But the one today about her being here and alive—no, I don’t. I just fear that the, uh, wrong people may be behind them. And that these messages are warnings or veiled threats. I just don’t know.”

  Grey rubbed at his temple and then considered his friend. “I think, Charles, that now may be a good time to tell me everything you know or even suspect. Your knowledge of the past, of Taylor’s past, may be the only thing that will help us figure this out and keep her alive and ensure her a future.”

  Charles again met his gaze. “Yes. I agree.” He stopped, ran a hand over his face, and sent Grey a look of alarm. “Where is Taylor now, Grey?”

  “She’s safe at my town house.”

  Charles relaxed his posture. “Well, thank God for that much.”

  “Yes. Go on,” Grey encouraged levelly, reaching for the whiskey bottle and the extra glass sitting in front of them. He poured Charles a drink and shoved it toward him.

  “Thank you.” Charles closed his hands … so pale and long-fingered … around the squat crystal glass. He stared at the dark amber liquor and began talking. “This is all so hard, Grey. So hard. Until now, Taylor has been dead to me. And now I have found her again, only to possibly lose her again. Unless we sort this out—and quickly—she is, this moment, as good as dead.”

  Grey stared at Charles
James, a man whose friendship he had enjoyed, a man with whom he’d played cards and drunk, a man in whose home he’d been entertained … a man to whom he was soon to be related by virtue of his brother Franklin’s marriage to Amanda. Suddenly, given all of Charles’s secrets, Grey felt as if he’d never met the older man before. “I don’t care for the way you phrased that. As good as dead.”

  Charles took a draining swig from the glass in front of him. Grey refilled it. “Don’t think for a moment that I do, either. I just fear it may be the truth.” Charles turned a pleading expression on Grey. “Believe me, Grey, Camilla’s done everything she’s done regarding Taylor to keep her as safe as you also want to keep her. I am satisfied on that score.”

  “You can so easily forgive Camilla for lying to you all these years? You’re a bigger man than me, Charles.” Grey’s stare was as level as his voice. “I still cannot fathom why she would have the nerve to keep information like that from you. Was that truly the only way, do you believe?”

  “Not only do I believe it; I know it. God, poor Camilla … having to live with that knowledge all these years. Well, at least she was able to—” Charles’s gaze slid away from Grey’s face. The older man took a deep breath and went on, but in a different vein. “Camilla’s philosophy was the fewer people who knew the truth about Taylor’s continued existence, the less chance there was of a slip-up. We have an enemy, Grey. Someone close to us—and to you—who would like nothing more than to see Taylor dead.”

  Grey’s heart plummeted. His hand tightened around the whiskey bottle in his grip. He stared at Charles, who eyed the contents of his glass. “You’ve said that before. And I’ve thought it, too. I accept that, but I just don’t know the why of it, or what lies behind all this. I cannot sort it out for myself, or know how to defend Taylor against whatever is coming, without reasons and a name, Charles. Especially a name. I want to get to the bottom of this.”