Her Cherokee Groom

by Valerie Hansen

  The land opened up only slightly on the opposite side of that grove. Charles kept to the tree line. Watching. Waiting to be rediscovered. Praying he would not be.

  As soon as he rounded another large clump of trees and knew he was once again hidden, he stopped the gelding and dismounted.

  The animal was still in a frenzy from their wild flight, lathered at the neck and foaming where the bit bridged its mouth.

  He held tight to the reins, using his free hand to pat the horse’s quivering neck while speaking softly. “Easy, boy. Easy. That’s it. Settle down.”

  The horse blew, snorted and pranced for a few more moments, then trusted him enough to stand. Its hide twitched beneath his touch when he slid his left hand down the withers and freed up his right.

  So far, so good. “Easy. That’s it. Almost done.”

  As soon as Annabelle’s and the boy’s traveling bags were loose from their tethers Charles stepped back. She had wanted to return Eaton’s horses. Now he would send this one home—and hopefully fool the posse at the same time.

  Knotting the long, loose reins together so the animal would not get tangled in them as it ran, he gave it one last friendly pat before shouting, “Yah!” and slapping it on the rump.

  The horse jumped and headed in the direction of its familiar stable, just as Charles had known it would.

  The thunder of hooves from the opposite direction caused him to fade into the grove of trees and hold perfectly still, barely breathing.

  “There he goes!” someone called.

  Other men shouted in triumph.

  “He’s mine!”

  “No, he’s mine. I seen him first!”

  “Outta my way or I’ll shoot you, instead,” another yelled, cursing to punctuate the threat.

  Amused and relieved, Charles remained a part of the forest until he was certain the final rider had passed, then fisted the handles of the bags, turned and cut through the trees to the river.

  Chapter Ten

  The Potomac flowed smoothly near the center. As the barge approached the far shore, however, the flat-bottomed craft began to list sideways and take on waves of water over the sides.

  Although Johnny was still holding the nervous mare’s bridle, Annabelle was glad she had dismounted. How she would get back onto the horse bothered her a lot less than the thought of falling into the river while perched atop it.

  A gang of men on shore had hold of long, heavy ropes and were tugging the boat’s bow closer while the keel followed the current and swung downstream on its own.

  “This way,” Johnny said. He was already leading the mare along the starboard side of the craft past the small, central cabin.

  “How will they get all the cattle off?” Annabelle asked, hoping the men did not decide to drive the herd along the same narrow walkway she and the boy were taking.

  “There. See?” He pointed.

  As the stern bumped the shoreline it was efficiently secured, much to her relief. She pressed her fingertips to her throat where her white pelerine formed a collar, its long, lacy points caught by her belt in the front.

  “Oh, my. That looks really dangerous.”

  “Not for us,” Johnny remarked as casually as if he traveled by boat all the time.

  There was no ramp or gangplank at the bow to facilitate their getting to shore, so the boy merely jumped, landing at the edge of the steep bank and nearly losing his balance before clambering onto the grassy verge.

  Annabelle was loath to follow in spite of his urging. And the gray mare seemed to be of the same mind.

  “Come,” Johnny urged. “Quickly.”

  “I prefer to wait until I can do it without sliding around in the mud or taking a bath,” she countered.

  He pointed aft where a team of drovers was setting up to off-load the cattle. “If you do not jump while the cows are weighing the boat down, it will start to ride higher in the water and be farther away.”

  To her chagrin she had to admit he had a point. “What about the horse?”

  “Get back on and ride her.” Johnny had to shout to be heard above all the other noises along the shore as well as the restless bawling of the frightened cattle. “She can jump farther than you can.”

  Without Charles to give her a boost, remounting proved problematic. By leading the mare over to some wooden crates and climbing them like stairs, she managed to gain enough height to fit her left foot into the stirrup. Pulling herself the rest of the way into the saddle, however, was chancy.

  “Stupid petticoats,” Annabelle muttered, happy to be astride once again but far from comfortably settled.

  Her left foot remained in one iron stirrup while she leaned right to locate the other with the toe of her shoe. It had to be down there. If only her full skirt and petticoats were not obscuring its position, she knew she could find it.

  The mare began to shift nervously and throw her heavy body back and forth as if unsure what her rider wanted or why she was so off balance.

  Annabelle straightened, concerned about handling the reins and beginning to realize that the Cherokee child had been taking more charge of their prior exploits on horseback than she had imagined.

  “Hold on!” he screeched in the high pitch of youth.

  There was nothing to grab except the slightly raised pommel of the saddle and the gullet beneath it where the tips of her fingers curled—and no time to snatch up the reins—even if she had known how to keep control.

  With three short strides the mare launched them both toward the shore just as Annabelle’s toes managed to find the lost right stirrup.

  The horse landed stiff-legged in the front. The initial jolt wasn’t enough to unseat Annabelle completely but it did throw her onto the mare’s neck where she held on for dear life.

  Both of her feet came loose. Momentum raised her up as the horse shot past Johnny and broke into a run. She was upright again! “Oh, thank...”

  Relief was fleeting. Annabelle was airborne by the second bounce.

  The third landed her just shy of the mare’s tail and as she fell backward its rear hooves barely missed hitting her!

  Johnny was by her side immediately. “Are you all right?”

  “I—I think so,” she said, teeth chattering. “What happened?”

  “You forgot to say, ‘Whoa.’”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Relieved to be in one piece even though her pride was severely bruised, she smiled and took the boy’s hand so he could help her rise.

  As Annabelle straightened her dress, brushed off her skirt and looked around, she gaped in astonishment. The mare was standing nearby, calmly nibbling tufts of grass. “If I had known she was going to stop that easily I might have been able to hold on longer.”

  “She stopped because you fell off. Otherwise I would be chasing you down the trail.”

  “In that case, I guess my poor horsemanship was for the best.”

  She shaded her eyes from the sun and scanned the far bank, hoping against hope that Charles had eluded his erstwhile captors and found his way back to the river.

  “I don’t see your uncle,” she told the child, her temporary burst of joy rapidly fading.

  “We will meet him later.” He grasped the mare’s reins and began to lead her away.

  “Wait! If we leave he won’t be able to find us.”

  “Yes, he will. We will go to the inn where our party stayed the last night before entering the city.”

  “Is that what he told you to do?”

  Her breath whooshed out in a sigh of desperation and discouragement when Johnny replied, “It is what he would want.”

  What was the use in arguing? Her ideas were no better than those of the Cherokee child and since he was more acquainted with his uncle’s habits than she was, it made sense t
o let him choose their path.

  If only she knew for a fact that Charles was safe, that he had escaped the posse that she had seen in pursuit, she could breathe easier. Or could she? Knowledge of his troubles would be no help at all since she was powerless to help. Not only did an entire river separate them, she had no weapons and no allies.

  Yes, she did, Annabelle realized with a start. She had a wise Cherokee boy. And she had her Christian faith—a faith she shared with Charles McDonald. God was their shield and shelter from any evil that might overwhelm them.

  With a glance heavenward and a prayer in her heart, she hiked her skirts above her shoe tops and stepped out, following the boy and their horse away from the Potomac.

  * * *

  Hatless, Charles felt only half-dressed. Still, he reasoned that the stylish top hat that had been literally shot off his head at Eaton’s would have immediately marked him as not belonging in the group working along the river.

  Truth to tell, his cutaway coat, vest and cravat were also not suitable attire.

  Still toting Annabelle’s carpetbag and the smaller sack containing the boy’s things, he approached a young man who was apparently waiting in line to off-load goods into his empty farm wagon.

  The brim of the fellow’s brown hat drooped, partially obscuring his face, and his dark coat had seen better days. Nevertheless, he was about Charles’s size and his garments seemed relatively clean and well tended.

  “Good afternoon,” Charles called with a wave. “Mind if I rest with you a bit?”

  “Don’t make me no nevermind,” the freckled young man said. “C’mon up. Looks like you’ve had a rough time.”

  Charles nodded and threw the bags he’d been carrying aboard the wagon. “That, I have.” He footed a front hub and hoisted himself beside the driver to share the spring seat. “It all started to go wrong when I lost my good hat.”

  Eyeing the floppy felt the other man was wearing he asked, “What would it take for you to part with yours?”

  “My hat?”

  “And your jacket, if you don’t mind.” Charles was shucking his cutaway coat as he spoke. “I’ll give you my coat and a few extra pennies if you’ll make the trade.”

  The youth’s eyes lit with interest, yet he hesitated to agree. “Where might you be bound, mister?”

  “Across the river. I won’t be coming back or accusing you of cheating me, I promise. The coat is finely made and should fit you well. There’s a small cut in one sleeve that can easily be mended. I can see all the young ladies appreciating you come Sunday morning church. Think how fine you’ll look.”

  “My shirt is homespun and so are my breeches. What’d I want with a coat like yours?”

  Charles laughed. “I see your point. Tell you what. I’ll keep my boots but you get all the rest—except for my pocket watch.”

  “Well,” the farmer drawled, removing his hat and combing his fingers through his long, sandy-blond hair. “My ma made all my clothes. She’d be a might put out if I was to trade ’em off without bringin’ her something.”

  Eyes drawn to the gold watch Charles was now holding in his hand, the young man began to smile. “’Course, she’d be pleased if I brought her somethin’ sparkly and pretty.”

  “You drive a hard bargain. All right. The watch, too.” Charles cast around to make sure they weren’t being observed, then climbed into the back of the high-sided wagon to change. At this point, his options were limited and his chances of getting away only temporarily better. Once the riders who had been pursuing him overtook the chestnut gelding and learned that he was no longer aboard, they were sure to return to the river and look for his trail.

  As he donned the farmer’s clothing he cautioned him. “There may be a few gents looking for me, so if you want to stay safe, let ’em see the light color of your hair. That way they won’t make any mistakes.”

  “You mean think I’m you and shoot at me?”

  If the young farmer had acted the least bit afraid, Charles might have felt guilty. On the contrary, he was grinning broadly and seemed to be looking forward to the possibility of a brawl.

  “Don’t underestimate the men who are looking for me,” Charles warned. “Once they know you’re not me, you should be safe enough. Just don’t relax until you’re sure they’ve realized that suit isn’t mine anymore.”

  “Yessir.” He was proudly donning the vest and trying to figure out how to tie the silk cravat while Charles was slipping his own boots back on and refilling his pockets.

  “One more thing,” the Cherokee said as he retrieved the traveling bags and jumped down from the wagon. “I’d be obliged if you’d tell them I went west.”

  “Whilst you cross the river? Glad to oblige. God be with you, sir.”

  “And with you,” Charles said. He eyed the gold watch. “I hope your mother appreciates a fine timepiece.”

  “I reckon she will, if’n she learns to tell time.”

  Pausing just long enough to instruct the farmer about the proper care and winding of the pocket watch, Charles bid him a last farewell and started toward the shore.

  The sooner he secured passage and left Washington, the better. And then he would have to buy another horse because he’d never be able to overtake Annabelle and Johnny if he walked or rode coaches.

  Speaking of horses, a group of riders was cantering along the river from the northeast. He didn’t have to recognize individuals to know they were the same men who had chased him through the woods less than an hour ago.

  He tossed the bags onto the deck of the nearest flatboat and followed them aboard as if he belonged there. No one challenged him, nor did his movements cause interest among those folks still on shore.

  With the farmer’s hat pulled low over his eyes and the homespun clothing completing his disguise, he was as good as invisible.

  The posse galloped closer. Charles held his breath when the riders stopped to speak to the farmer who was now wearing the Cherokee’s expensive clothing.

  He saw the youth stand in the wagon and point west, back toward the city, as he had promised.

  Satisfied, Charles left the stern of the boat and went in search of her captain.

  It was time to pay for passage into Virginia.

  * * *

  There were several reasons why Annabelle chose to walk from the river. One, she was stiff and sore and hoping movement would keep her muscles from tying in knots. Two, she was not ready to be thrown off the horse again. How people convinced themselves to get back on and ride after an accident such as hers was beyond comprehension.

  Her small companion acted more than happy to have the mare to himself for a while. The only thing that seemed to bother him was their slow progress.

  “We can go much faster if you ride,” Johnny prodded.

  “I know. That’s the third time you’ve told me,” Annabelle replied with a smile. “What’s your hurry? Don’t you want your uncle to catch up to us?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then relax and enjoy the beautiful afternoon.” Sun warmed her shoulders through her dress and she was thankful that her only bonnet was the small, white lace cap she nearly always wore.

  Twisting his upper torso while remaining in the saddle, the boy studied the wide trail behind them, then frowned. “I am worried that someone else will come after us. We should move into the forest or stay out here and go faster.”

  Annabelle could not argue with such levelheaded reasoning. The neighboring woods were broken by some tilled fields and orchards but even those would have made passage difficult, particularly on horseback. Hurrying to a place of solace and safety made the most sense. And, in order to accomplish that, she would have to climb aboard the mare once again.

  “All right,” she said, casting about for a step on which to stand while mounting. “Find
a big rock or log or something and I’ll try to get back on.”

  Johnny beamed. “I knew you would. Tsali said you were a special woman.”

  That statement floored her. She gaped at the boy. “He did?”

  Unabashed, the child nodded. “Yes. When he met us that first day, in the kitchen garden.”

  “He never. I heard the whole conversation.”

  Johnny was grinning from ear to ear and looking terribly pleased. “Some of it was in Cherokee.”

  “Well, yes, I guess it was, but...”

  Laughing, he urged the mare closer to a rail fence and scooted forward in the saddle. “Here. Can you get on?”

  Although Annabelle was still trying to come to terms with whatever Charles may have said in her regard, she nevertheless was paying attention to the child.

  Hiking her skirts above her ankles, she placed one foot on the bottom rung of the fence, then climbed to the second one. Her perch was a bit precarious but suitable.

  The gray mare shifted slightly. Annabelle had given one hand to the boy and had already put a foot in the left stirrup so she made a little jump and landed astride as if she had been doing so all her life. The more practice she got, the more she likened this kind of riding to her childish jaunts around a farm pasture.

  “You are doing well,” Johnny told her.

  “Thank you. When I was a girl I used to play with an old, retired workhorse. I’d get up on a stump and she’d come over so I could ride her. I never used a saddle or bridle, though. That’s why I wasn’t sure how to hold the reins and such.”

  “Be gentle when you do,” Johnny said, demonstrating. “A little pressure on one side of her neck is all you need with a well-trained horse like this. If you jerk or pull you’ll hurt her mouth and then she’ll be harder to handle.”

  “All right.”

  Settling into place at the rear of the saddle, Annabelle found the other stirrup, then put an arm on either side of Johnny and practiced while he guided her hands. Satisfied that she was doing well, she asked, “How do I tell her to stop?”

  “A quick tug should be enough, unless she’s running scared. Holler ‘Whoa’ at the same time you pull.” He snickered. “And remember to lean back or you might lose your balance and fall off.”