Her Cherokee Groom

by Valerie Hansen

  It was still early enough in the year that they might encounter storms bearing freezing rain. Of all the possible risks, that was one of the worst. It made the trails slick and stung a person’s face like needles being hurled by an angry porcupine.

  That was why his first task must be acquiring better provisions. And, if they came to a town that had a resident preacher, he would also keep his promise to wed his traveling companion.

  Such a wild notion should have caused him acute distress but it did not. Truth be known, he had surprised himself when he had offered marriage, yet the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was the right thing to do.

  Charles’s biggest conundrum then became his own motives. He could not help wondering if he had chosen to propose marriage for Annabelle’s sake alone, or if he was merely fooling himself.

  The way he viewed his actions, they felt right. Frighteningly so.

  Starting into the thick forest he kept one eye on his task and the other on the lovely woman he knew he would be proud to call his wife. There was no earthly way she would have ever agreed to wed him under normal circumstances. Nor would he have asked.

  The picture of their future together was so ethereal, so tenuous, he could only pray that he—that they—were following the wisest path.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Annabelle had been so sleepy she had almost missed getting her share of the food Johnny had purloined from the Eaton kitchen.

  She dusted the biscuit crumbs off her skirt and settled comfortably onto the bed of soft branches Charles had laid for her.

  Man and boy were still seated close together, talking privately. Even if they had been speaking only English she doubted she could have made out half their conversation. Nevertheless, she strained to hear bits and pieces because she was certain she had heard someone mention her name.

  “Yes, I meant it,” Charles grumbled.

  Johnny answered in Cherokee.

  “That is my business,” Charles replied. “You just take care of the horses and behave yourself around her.”

  Annabelle didn’t hear the boy say much more and assumed he was sulking the way he had been ever since Charles had mentioned possible nuptials.

  Remembering her initial reaction to that conversation she felt a warmth rising in her cheeks and extending all the way to her toes. Becoming husband and wife would solve a lot of their problems for the present. What it would do to their budding relationship in the future, however, was an altogether different issue.

  She shivered. Closing her eyes and tucking her heavy coat around her, she folded her hands beneath it and began to pray for divine guidance.

  The next thing she knew, it was morning.

  * * *

  Charles apportioned the remaining biscuits carefully and warned against wastefulness as they prepared to leave camp. “I don’t know when we’ll find someplace where we can get decent food so make that last as long as you can. There are settlements along this road. I’m just not sure how well they’ll be provisioned.”

  “What road is this?” Annabelle asked. “It seems to be very well traveled. Look at the wagon ruts.”

  “It’s called the Wilderness Road. It was first designated such by Daniel Boone but the original trails were cut by the Cherokee and many other tribes.”

  “Is that why there are so many narrow side routes everywhere?”

  “Partly. We’re not the first travelers who have wished to move along without being observed.” She noticed that Charles’s smile had faded just before he said, “If anything should happen to me or if we get separated, stick to the main trail and you’ll be fine. It would be easy to lose your way if you went off too far and couldn’t see the way back.”

  “Don’t give it another thought. You’re not getting out of my sight,” Annabelle promised.

  She had shed her coat early and tied it on behind her saddle. Currently, the boy was riding with her and sitting on the coat, although it was clear he was not pleased with the arrangement. The few efforts she had made to speak with him had had no result other than to earn him a stern look of warning from Charles. Since she didn’t want to cause trouble, she had stopped trying to exchange pleasantries.

  Watching Charles’s broad shoulders and straight back as he rode ahead of her, Annabelle was becoming more and more enamored of him. There was no aspect of his character that she did not admire; no element of his personality that was not pleasing. And no memory of him that was anything but uplifting. The mere thought of the sacrifices he had already made for her was enough to make her heart swell with pride and thanksgiving.

  With Johnny so close by she was unwilling to pray aloud so she let her mind reach out to God and mouthed a silent “Amen.”

  Was the boy a Christian like Charles? she wondered. And if he was, how might she explain to him that she and his uncle were planning to pledge their troth before a man of the cloth when they might not mean it?

  Worse, Annabelle realized, was how she was ever going to explain to God?

  * * *

  The town they encountered the following evening was small, but a white-painted spire told Charles what he needed to know. If this church had a spiritual leader in residence, rather than relying on a circuit rider, his prayers had been answered.

  “You and the boy can wait for me out here,” he said, stopping their party before the forest opened up fully on the settlement.

  “Please, don’t leave us,” Annabelle begged in a tone tinged with panic.

  He hesitated and studied her. It was clear she was nervous. He was at a loss to understand why they had seen no sign of their former pursuers since leaving the inn.

  “I won’t go far. I just want to ask around about finding a missionary or some other kind of preacher.” He angled his larger horse to face her mare’s tail so he could more easily take her hand, hoping a gentle touch would calm her. “We can’t have the Cherokee ceremony until we have tribal support, but I thought you’d like the Christian one as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, of course.” She shot a brief glance at the taciturn child who had already hopped down. “I simply want us all to stay together. I think that’s wise, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Looking around and sensing no threats, he urged his horse ahead. “Come on, then. Let’s go get married. Afterward, we’ll visit the general store and buy whatever we need for comfort on the trail.”

  “We won’t have to stop at any more inns like the first one, will we?” Annabelle had brought the mare even with his mount so they could converse more easily as they rode and was looking up at him expectantly, hopefully. The boy trotted alongside.

  Charles smiled at her naïveté. “Not all are as atrocious as that one was, but, no, we won’t be staying in any inns. Not if I can help it. I plan to continue to make camp along the trail, only with better foresight and planning than last night. That way we will be harder to track and won’t have to race to stay ahead of anyone who may still be looking for us.”

  “Do you really think they will follow us all the way?”

  “I sincerely hope not,” he said. “We will leave the horses with Johnny while we see if we can locate the preacher.”

  Charles’s brow furrowed, his seriousness meant to make an impression on the child as he added, “You will hold our horses, watch for riders from Washington and warn us if you see anyone familiar. Is that clear?”

  Although his face showed disrespect he agreed. “Yes, sir.”

  Dismounting in front of the tiny wooden church, Charles handed his reins to Johnny, then reached up to assist Annabelle again.

  Her hands rested gently on his shoulders. He grasped her waist. Lifted. Swung her free of the saddle.

  As he lowered her she landed so close, so trusting, Charles had to force himself to release her.

 
When she slid her hands from his shoulders, gazed up at him and smiled sweetly, he wanted to bend and kiss her so badly he almost did so.

  The only thing stopping him was the realization that such an unseemly show of affection, particularly now, could frighten her. She would be much safer as his wife. Therefore, he must be careful to do nothing to dissuade or confuse her.

  Perhaps later, when she began to feel comfortable with him and they were no longer together because of duress, he would ask her permission to court her properly.

  The ludicrous notion almost made him laugh. He was about to marry the woman and here he stood, worried about how to court her!

  * * *

  They found the preacher’s wife, Leah Hoskins, tending a garden at the rear of the church and she quickly located the clergyman for them.

  It took Annabelle less than half an hour to wash, change into her Sunday dress and fix her hair. The gray frock and matching collar weren’t a lot different from the burgundy day dress she had been wearing but the outfit was a sight cleaner.

  Would Charles even care? She doubted it. He was approaching their wedding in the same unruffled manner that had characterized him from the start. If it had not been for the insistence of the missionary’s wife that the bride would want to freshen up, he probably would have simply spoken his vows, bought supplies and headed on down the trail without delay.

  “You look lovely, dear,” the older woman told Annabelle.

  “Thank you.”

  Blushing, Leah leaned closer and whispered behind her hand. “Has your mother spoken to you about wifely things?”

  “I have no mother,” Annabelle said sadly, not realizing to what the woman was alluding.

  “Oh, my. Then I suppose...” Taking the bride by the hand she led her into a bench in a secluded corner. “Before Reverend Hoskins returns with your intended, I should warn you. Men are strange creatures.”

  Embarrassed and unwilling to be led into a discussion of such a personal nature, Annabelle resisted. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. Really, it won’t.” Wishing to begin considering her new life as reality she added, “The boy is our son.”

  That revelation clearly flustered and discomfited the pastor’s wife because she clutched her hands together, pressed them to her ample breast and blushed. “Oh. Oh, my. I see. Well, then...”

  Annabelle noticed the older woman’s attention divert to the front of the tiny sanctuary. There, standing next to the gray-haired, frock-coated missionary, was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

  The fancy clothing the Cherokee had been wearing when she had first laid eyes on him was no longer pertinent. Still clad in homespun and holding that ugly old hat in hand, Charles remained the best looking, most appealing man she had ever known. His long hair was slicked back, his shoulders broad, his stance imposing yet not at all off-putting.

  He was the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld.

  And he was smiling at her as if he actually wanted to make her his wife.

  Refusing to let common sense dissuade her, Annabelle left Leah and stepped forward boldly, eager to join her groom at the altar.

  If someone had asked her how she felt at that moment, she would have told them that her feet had never touched the ground.

  * * *

  Unsure of what amenities his new bride expected, Charles bought a pack mule, two skinning knives, powder and ball for his rifle, and enough additional supplies to take them through to Georgia without having to stop often in other towns. The way he saw it, the less they had to do with civilization on their way home to his tribe, the better their chances of eluding anyone in pursuit.

  Keeping to native trails as much as possible, he headed for the Cumberland Gap.

  Their first night as husband and wife was rapidly approaching and he didn’t want to further frighten Annabelle by waiting until dark to pitch camp, so he found a suitable clearing and halted.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked.

  “I thought we’d set up camp early since we’ve never done it properly before.”

  He swung down and ground-hitched his horse before turning to the boy. “Make sure that mule is hobbled, just like the horses, in case he takes a notion to go home, then gather some wood for a fire while I arrange the rest.”

  Johnny had amassed a pile of broken logs and twigs before Charles finished stringing ropes to support a canvas lean-to between a couple of pines. As long as the weather held, that kind of minimal shelter would suffice.

  Since Annabelle had taken it upon herself to assist the boy, Charles went to the mule and unpacked the iron skillet and coffeepot he’d bought, plus flour, baking powder and a slab of cured meat.

  “They didn’t have lard so I bought some bacon,” he told her. “You can use that to grease the pan.”

  She just stood there, cradling an armload of dead wood. Her eyes were wide, her expression one of bewilderment. “I can? Why?”

  “To keep the biscuits from sticking and give them flavor. They won’t be as good without lard but we won’t notice after we drown them in red-eye gravy.”

  “Um, in what?”

  “Gravy. Made from pan drippings and coffee. You said you helped the servants at Eaton’s. You do know how to cook, don’t you?”

  “I’ve seen it done.”

  In the background, the Cherokee boy was snickering and muttering. Charles silenced him with an icy stare.

  “Well, I hope you paid close attention or we’ll all starve,” Charles said flatly. “Cooking is not my strongest forte.”

  “Nor mine,” his new bride confessed.

  Johnny piped up. “I helped my grandmother all the time.” He was already selecting and placing rocks to form a circular cooking area. That done, he arranged dried moss and kindling in the center, struck a spark from Charles’s tinder box and soon had suitable flames.

  “After it dies down, we can cook,” the boy said. He was looking at his adult companions and shaking his head, wordlessly chastising them.

  Charles grinned. “Good thing we didn’t leave him in Washington, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Annabelle agreed, “although I feel terribly inept. My first foster mother, Myra, had started to teach me simple household chores. After she died, I did spend time with the servants and learn a few things, such as how to sew a straight seam or darn a sock. I just never did much in the kitchen except prepare the elements. You know, like peeling potatoes or gathering spices.”

  “I’m almost ready for the bacon,” Johnny said. “And a fork if you have one.”

  Charles shaved off several slabs of the pungent cured pork and handed them to the boy. “That enough?”

  “Yes.” He was already laying it in the pan. “Did you buy anything to mix biscuits in?”

  “No.”

  “Just give me the sack of flour, the knife and the baking powder then.”

  Charles turned to Annabelle. “I’ll go gather pine boughs for our sleeping places if you’ll stay here and make sure our cook doesn’t set the woods on fire.”

  She was smiling as she replied, “I believe Johnny knows what to do. He certainly seems to be more accomplished than I am.”

  Although Charles figured he could have muddled through and have turned out an acceptable meal, he chose to let Johnny shine. This was the first time since leaving the churchyard that the boy had spoken more than a few words. Letting him show off was for everyone’s benefit, especially his.

  And what about Annabelle? Could she be pretending a lack of skill for the boy’s sake, too? He doubted it. Considering her usual take-charge attitude and willingness to jump in and try anything, he had to assume she truly did not know how to cook. That would not be a problem under normal circumstances because his family employed several good cooks back home. Out here, however, it would have bee
n nice to be traveling with a party containing more than one person who knew how to make a simple biscuit.

  Sighing, he took a hatchet into the woods and began to cut young, tender pine boughs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It looked to Annabelle as if the boy was about to ruin their flour supply. She almost told him to stop what he was doing, then thought better of it and hunkered down to watch him work, instead.

  Wielding Charles’s knife he cut an X-shaped slit in the flour sack on one side, near the top, and pushed back the coarse fabric to expose some of the contents. Then he used the tip of the knife to pick up a dab of baking powder and added it to the exposed flour.

  “I’ll need some clean water,” he told Annabelle.

  Nary a please or a thank-you was offered but she complied, fetching him one of their animal-hide canteens.

  Pushing a depression in the flour where he had added the baking powder, the boy poured in enough water to make a paste, stirred it slightly with the knife blade, then drizzled in a bit of the hot fat.

  “Won’t that cook it?” Annabelle asked.

  “Not if the water was cold enough.”

  “Oh.” She had watched Lucy make biscuits in a slightly similar fashion but seeing it done in the forest with nothing but a sack of flour and a hunting knife was rather impressive.

  Finally, Johnny put his hands into the dough and worked it until it was a solid, gummy ball that he summarily handed to her.

  When Annabelle stood there, just staring at the blob of dough, he said, “Break off small pieces and wrap them around a clean stick like that one.” He pointed to a leftover piece of kindling. “Then hold it over the fire. Watch so it doesn’t burn.”

  “Should I wash the stick first?”

  The Cherokee child rolled his eyes. “You can if you want to. If you get it too wet the dough might slide off.”