Her Cherokee Groom

by Valerie Hansen

  She nodded. “Yes. One of the guests mentioned a couple of strangers hanging around town recently.”

  “New Echota is the center of tribal government. Strangers are not unusual. Besides, I’ve only just arrived so they can’t have trailed me.”

  “Still...whoever was pursuing you might have anticipated your destination and come straight here while you were working your way through the back country.”

  Although he had considered that possibility, hearing it voiced was unsettling. “All right. I’ll be watchful. Knowing Annabelle is safe with you, I won’t worry.”

  “She will be fine—as long as you do not stay away too long. I truly believe she cares for you, Charles.”

  If only he could accept that conclusion. His heart yearned to, but his mind kept insisting that she never would have agreed to become his bride if she had had any other workable option.

  Without reply, he turned on his heel and started downstairs, bound for the stable.

  Truth to tell, he would not have chosen to marry her, either, at that particular juncture. Now, however, he was more than willing to make her his wife again. The tricky parts would be convincing his clan to accept her as well as convincing Annabelle that she truly belonged among his people.

  With him. Forever.

  * * *

  When Annabelle awoke, she thought the only light in her room came from a guttering candle flame. Then, she raised on one elbow to look out the window and realized what had roused her. There was a storm brewing.

  Spring and summertime thunder and lightning had been so prevalent in Tennessee when she was a girl she wasn’t surprised to see that same kind of wild weather occurring here in Georgia.

  As a child, she had quaked from the rumbles and crashes as bright bolts zigzagged across the sky. Then, as she’d matured, she’d come to appreciate the majesty of the Lord’s works, even though rapid weather changes were often heralded by the kind of debilitating headache that had laid her so low the previous evening.

  She swung her bare feet to the floor, leaned to blow out the candle, then padded to the window to watch the grandeur unfold. God’s power was truly amazing.

  Gray and black clouds billowed against a night sky, lighting it as if a thousand candles suddenly glowed behind them, then vanishing in a blur. The flashes were so frequent and bright she could tell that the wind was moving everything rapidly, propelling rain and threatening to flatten some of the crops in nearby fields.

  Annabelle wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, thinking of the nights she, Charles and Johnny had spent on the trail and thanking God that, although they had experienced some rain, they had not been caught in this kind of maelstrom.

  She realized she was secure here. And the horses were bedded down in the Boudinot stables, as well. So why did she keep getting a niggling sense of doom? Of something very, very wrong? Was this the kind of foreboding Johnny had experienced when they had followed Charles to the banks of the Potomac?

  Annabelle shook herself and turned from the window. Imagining trouble where there was none was more than foolish, it was a sin. Besides, she trusted the Lord now more than ever. He had brought her little party through the wilderness unscathed and she’d given Him thanks again and again.

  Since she’d trusted her faith in the worst of times, she reasoned, there was no excuse for doubting God when things were going well. Unless, of course, the Lord was trying to tell her something important and she was too blind and deaf to see or hear the warning.

  That thought took her aback. What was she missing? She closed her eyes and folded her hands right where she stood.

  “What is it, Father? What do you want me to do?”

  Could it be she was meant to go comfort the boy?

  That notion was summarily banished. Charles was with Johnny so she dared not approach their room lest her efforts be misinterpreted. If the child needed solace the man would provide it, just as he had during their journey.

  Nevertheless, Annabelle could not rest. Waiting for repeated flashes from the storm to guide her steps in the unfamiliar bedroom, she haltingly made her way to the armoire, found her long wrapper where one of the maids had hung it after it was washed and dried, and donned it for modesty’s sake.

  “If no one is up and about, there will be no harm done,” she told herself as she headed for the hallway. “And if there truly is something wrong, I will soon find out what it is.”

  Her heart also hoped she would encounter Charles. The last time she had looked upon his handsome face was when she had swooned, and his expression had been filled with concern. With compassion. And, perhaps, a little affection, unless her imagination was playing tricks on her.

  “That’s probably what’s going on right now, too,” Annabelle whispered to herself. “I’m being a silly goose.”

  Well, too bad. If she explored the house and found nothing amiss, she would be delighted. If, however, her nighttime wanderings showed her a need that she could meet, she was more than ready to do so.

  In spite of the erroneous opinion that her momentary physical weakness may have caused during Harriet’s dinner party, she was strong and healthy, and willing to step into the fray for the sake of good whenever necessary.

  “Just as I did for Johnny back in Washington,” she murmured, realizing for perhaps the first time that that one simple act of kindness toward a child had changed her life completely.

  * * *

  Charles had wrapped himself in a blanket and found a comfortable place to rest without actually getting undressed and going to bed in the cabin. He’d seen no threats during or after their pilgrimage to the old woman’s home, yet Harriet’s warning continued to echo in his thoughts.

  There had been many times when he had wondered why their pursuers had apparently given up so easily. Even amateur bounty hunters would be driven to continue because of the potential for reward. So where were the men from Eaton’s or the inn? Why had there been no inkling of their presence since the confrontation at the inn? Had he been that clever? Or had they circumvented his plans and merely guessed where he and his party would eventually surface?

  Like it or not, the latter was more than possible. It was probable. It was what he would have done if following directly had proved too difficult. Once the posse had caught and saddled their horses behind the inn, the most sensible course would have been to head straight down the trail.

  Since he had led Annabelle and the boy via side routes, the others might have overtaken and passed them quickly, leaving no clue behind.

  Eaton knew where the Cherokee delegation had come from, Charles reminded himself. What was to say he had not dispatched another group—or added more men to the first—to hunt them down?

  That thought ran through him like icy water from a mountain stream. Unable to relax enough to close his eyes, he threw off the blanket and wandered to the window to check the progress of the storm.

  Lightning was flashing so frequently it was almost bright as midday. Trees bent low, their branches thrashing from the force of the gale. New, green leaves that were meant to last all summer were being torn loose to tumble away with the old, dry ones.

  Charles froze, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him.

  There. Again. He had seen something. Or someone.

  Instead of pausing whenever the sky lit up, a solitary figure boldly continued to work its way around the house. The prowler was on foot. And apparently not unduly worried about being noticed.

  A brace of pistols was one of the only items of value that Charles had retained after his ill-fated sojourn in Washington. Now that he was back home and in need of such protection, he was glad his chiefs had forbidden the carrying of firearms while on their diplomatic mission. Otherwise, he would not have left his guns at Elias’s for safekeeping and therefore have them now.

  He
strapped on the belt with the double holsters, stood in the shadows beside the window, and waited.

  If they came for him, or for the boy, he would be ready.

  And if they did not, he would start at first light and track them down himself.

  * * *

  Annabelle crept down the stairs barefoot, taking care to step as silently as possible. The storm kept her progress fairly well illuminated until she reached the ground floor and realized there was a steady light streaming from the direction of the kitchen.

  A reddish-haired, well-endowed, middle-aged woman looked up when she entered the warm room. “Mornin’, ma’am.”

  “Good morning. You certainly rise early,” Annabelle said pleasantly.

  “A-fore dawn, if you must know. There’s no other way to get the stove hot and breakfast ready by the time the mister and missus want it.” She wiped her hands on her apron and bent to stir the coals in the firebox with a poker.

  “You must be Fiona. I’ve heard you’re a wonder in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Are you feelin’ better today?”

  Nodding, Annabelle wasn’t at all surprised to find that the servants were well-informed. The ones at the Eatons’ had known plenty about the inner workings of the family.

  “Yes, thanks.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples and massaged in tiny circles, relieved when there was no pain beyond a dull twinge. “I sometimes get terrible headaches when there’s a storm brewing.”

  “You were certainly right about that happening,” Fiona said with a smile. “’Tis right nasty out there.”

  Agreeing with a nod, Annabelle looked around for something to occupy her. “I don’t really know much about cooking but I sometimes used to help in the kitchen at home,” she said. “Is there some way I can assist you?”

  The astonishment on the woman’s face took her aback, made her realize belatedly that she was no longer being viewed as the social equal of a servant. Yet, in her heart, that was exactly how she felt. She had grown up relying on the kindness of both servants and outright slaves. They had been her substitute family for so long she had taken her status among them for granted.

  “I have a girl that helps me when I need her,” Fiona said flatly. “There’s no need for a lady like you to get her hands dirty.”

  Annabelle smiled slightly before she said, “I think I should explain. I’m an orphan. I was never a fine lady like your mistress.”

  “Still...”

  She shook her head. “I learned my place early in life, Fiona. I don’t belong in a drawing room, doing embroidery or sewing fine garments the way some highborn women do.” She gestured at the table where the cook had begun to assemble the makings of a sumptuous breakfast. “I belong right here. I may be free to do as I wish but this kind of life is what gives me comfort.” Her smile bloomed. “Please? May I assist you somehow?”

  “Well, all right, but if Miz Harriet gets upset, you’ll have to promise to tell her it was your idea.”

  “Gladly,” Annabelle said. “Perhaps you could teach me how to bake an acceptable biscuit.” She started to push up the sleeves of her wrapper, then decided to run back upstairs and dress first. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  She could hear the cook mumbling to herself as she dashed from the kitchen and up the stairs, only slowing to tiptoe when she passed the closed door to the room Charles and Johnny had been given.

  It was going to feel good to be of use again, to provide for others the way she used to while growing up. Perhaps many women in her place would have reveled in being coddled but Annabelle did not. She never had as a little girl in Tennessee, either.

  Thinking fondly of Myra, she realized that a strong work ethic had been one of the strengths the first Mrs. Eaton had imparted to her. So had an abiding faith in God and a love for her fellow human beings. That included everyone, all the Fionas and the Marthas and especially the innocent little children of the world.

  Which was probably why she didn’t look down on the Cherokees, either, she mused. They were just as dear to her as Myra had been.

  And a couple of them especially so, Annabelle thought, blushing and picturing Charles McDonald with the child she had grown to love.

  As I love the man, she admitted to herself without reservation. His gallantry had won her respect; his compassion, her heart. That was a given.

  What she would do about her feelings was a different question altogether. If his background was that of wealth and privilege as she suspected, there was no way she could bring herself up to his level. Not in a million years. He would not want to include a homeless waif in his family any more than Margaret and John Eaton had.

  Dressing quickly, Annabelle used two of the combs from the evening before to secure the sides of her long hair, lifting the locks at the temples and leaving the rest loose to drape over her shoulders and down her back rather than take the time to pin it all up. The blue ribbon that had been fastened at her neck before was perfect to gather long tresses at her nape.

  Satisfied and eager to be of use, to somehow fit in, she pulled up clean stockings, slipped her feet into her shoes and hurried back to the kitchen.

  No stirrings came from the room occupied by her traveling companions as she passed their closed door, but she wasn’t worried. She had retired early and was thus well rested. By the time Charles and Johnny came down to breakfast she would have proven her worth and perhaps even have learned how to make good biscuits.

  Her fondest hope was to make an ally of Fiona without disappointing Harriet.

  The world between master and servant was her bailiwick. It might be a mystery to most folks, but it was where she belonged.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The brunt of the storm seemed to pass as Charles watched through the cabin windows. There had been no more suspicious activity in the yard since his first sighting, making him relax and doubt he had seen anything other than a helpful neighbor checking on the livestock.

  Dawn was muted by lingering clouds that scudded across the sky. Distant thunder accompanied a glow from lightning that was now jumping from cloud to cloud without going to ground.

  Nothing about the storm had sounded nearby for the past hour, nor had he lit a fire in the stove, so he was incredulous when he began to smell a hint of smoke.

  Clapping the farmer’s hat on his head, Charles shrugged into the coarse jacket and stepped outside.

  The narrow covered porch, like the rest of the old woman’s home, was run-down and weathered. A rocking chair sat to one side, its cane seat broken and sagging. Wild morning glory vines climbed strings stretched from the ground to the overhang on the east side. Rain had washed dust from the leaves and flowers, leaving twinkling droplets of freshness behind.

  A cloud of what Charles initially assumed was fog lay in the direction of the barn.

  He started down the porch steps.

  The odor got stronger.

  Starting to run, he rounded the corner and saw everything clearly.

  The old barn was on fire!

  * * *

  For Annabelle, being helpful in the kitchen was akin to coming home. Even when Harriet bustled in and caught her, she couldn’t help grinning.

  “Don’t be cross with Fiona,” Annabelle pleaded. “This was my idea. She’s going to teach me how to cook.” Drying her hands she poured two cups of hot coffee and urged Harriet to join her at the table. “Please. Sit and talk with me for a bit so I can explain?”

  “All right.”

  Annabelle could tell that the slightly older woman was flabbergasted so she hurried her explanation. “I told you I was a foundling. Well, there’s more. You see, Myra Eaton took me in after my grandmother died when I was very young. Barely three years old, she said. She’s the only mother I remember ever having and when she passed away at a youn
g age, it was the household servants who stepped in and raised me, who became my family.”

  “This was where? In Tennessee?”

  “Yes. John Eaton, Myra’s widower, moved his household to Washington when he was elected to Congress. Then, about a year ago, he married a widow, Margaret Timberlake. She wasn’t thrilled having me underfoot and I found that I was happiest being among the servants—so there I stayed.”

  “Eaton is an important man.”

  “True. And Margaret is a special friend of President Jackson. I fear I did not fit into her social circles.”

  Falling silent, Annabelle watched her hostess assimilate all she had imparted. There was more to consider, of course. There was Charles McDonald’s family. Until she knew more about his background she dared not hope or plan beyond current circumstances.

  Harriet took a cautious sip of her coffee and nodded. “I see. Have you ever tried to trace your family?”

  “Not lately. When Myra died, I was so bereaved I thought of little else, but John refused to discuss it. Then, as time went by and I realized the impossibility of learning the truth, I settled into the routine that was my life, until I met Charles and we were unjustly blamed for killing a ruffian.”

  “He told me as much. Stepping forward to help him was very brave of you.”

  “It was right. I could not just stand there and see him overpowered.” She focused on her cup. “Or worse.”

  Harriet patted her hand. “Nevertheless, I am grateful.”

  Still thinking of her unknown background, Annabelle said, “Charles has promised to guide me to Tennessee to see if I can find out more about my family.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Annabelle sighed noisily. “I thought it was. Now, I am not so sure. I wish I could predict what we’d find. I fear uncovering bad news that will make me an even less suitable mate. I really know very little about my husband’s past.”

  She paused, hoping Harriet would provide details about him.

  When she did not, Annabelle asked, “What was his upbringing like? He speaks and writes very well. Did he go to school with your husband?”