Her Cherokee Groom

by Valerie Hansen

  The first Cherokee she came to filled her in. “We got a pair of bounty hunters trapped back there in what’s left of the old barn. It’s a standoff. They’re holding McDonald and the boy.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Wait for Elias to decide, I reckon. I’m supposed to stop ’em if they try to get by me.”

  Annabelle backed away, torn. She knew she should keep her distance and fully intended to—until she heard a thud and a sharp cry of pain. Charles! They were hurting him. And these men were just standing there, letting him be abused. Or worse.

  Visualizing the structure the last time she’d seen it, she had trouble imagining that anything substantial enough to hide four people had survived. There was part of a rear wall with deep piles of ruins jumbled in front of it. Perhaps a portion of the loft remained, making a barrier that hid the bounty hunters and her loved ones.

  The sun was setting. Soon the men who had captured Charles would have the advantage of darkness. That would never do.

  She edged away until she was hidden from the posse members by a portion of the dilapidated chicken house. The hens had roosted for the night and were quiet, so she took pains to keep from disturbing them and thus giving away her presence.

  She didn’t have to tiptoe to keep her soft shoes from making noise. Creeping closer to the remnants of the barn, she heard voices. Men talking. But not Charles’s voice. If she had not heard him cry out she might have suspected they had lied about taking him prisoner.

  One peek between warped boards and she knew the worst. Charles lay on the floor, unmoving, while his captors argued about how to save their own necks.

  “I told ya we shouldn’t mess with the Indians in their own town, but did you listen to me? No. You had to bull your way through. We wouldn’t have lost Patrick in the fire if you’d taken your time.”

  “Bah! He knew the risks. We all did. The reward was worth takin’ a few chances. You’re just sore ’cause we got surrounded.”

  Annabelle hardly dared breathe for fear they’d sense her presence.

  Back away. Run, her brain shouted.

  Find an answer and act, countered her heart.

  Moving her head from side to side gave her a wider view of the scene. Charles’s pistols lay in the ash and dirt mere inches from the partial wall she was hiding behind. To reach them, however, she’d have to show herself and move very surely. Quickly. And be ready to fire as soon as her hands closed around the guns.

  It would be doubly tricky to handle both because they were heavy, so she opted to grab just one and fire only if she were forced to.

  Whispering a plea to Jesus for help and strength, she started to rise.

  The men were so engrossed in their argument they didn’t notice her until she had grasped the pistol in both hands, raised the barrel and pulled the hammer back with her thumbs. It made a clicking noise that was unmistakable.

  All conversation ceased.

  Annabelle froze with her finger on the trigger.

  One shot, Charles had taught her. You only have one shot, so make it count.

  Both men turned and lunged for her.

  She pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened!

  A large hand fisted on the pistol barrel, jerking it forward as Annabelle made a frantic attempt to hang on.

  Her index finger tightened. Pulled the trigger again in the hopes the failure had been a misfire and it would work this time.

  It didn’t.

  Annabelle screamed.

  After that, everything happened so fast she only caught brief glimpses of the action.

  A charred piece of wood arced through the air. Hit on the side of his head beside his eye, one of the men dropped like a marionette whose strings had been snipped.

  The thug who had disarmed her was left holding and pointing a useless pistol.

  Charles rolled to the side, still on the floor, and reached his second gun. He fired from there, mortally wounding the remaining miscreant.

  Annabelle pressed her fingertips to her lips to squelch the screams still locked inside her.

  In seconds she realized Charles was not only alive, he was getting to his feet and starting to check on the two men while Johnny stood over one with the piece of wood he had thrown as accurately as a spear, ready to deliver another blow.

  Shouts from outside preceded the arrival of the five from the impromptu posse. Charles stood and waved the empty pistol announcing, “It’s over. They’re both down.”

  Annabelle hurried to him, slipping her arms around his waist and holding tight. “When I saw you on the floor I thought...”

  “I was playing possum.” He held her away and scowled. “What are you doing here? I told you to go home.”

  “I did. These friends of yours came to the rescue because I alerted them.”

  “And you had to guide them back here?” An eyebrow arched and he gave her a stern look.

  “Maybe.”

  “Then why didn’t you stay outside with them?” He frowned at her, then began to smile in spite of himself. “I know. Don’t tell me. You thought only you could save me.”

  “Not exactly.” Blushing, she eyed the men from town. “When I gave the alarm I wasn’t even sure you were in trouble. Not directly, anyway. It was like when Johnny and I followed you to the river. He said he just knew you were in trouble. It was the same for me tonight.”

  She noticed him swaying slightly. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be,” Charles said. “but I suspect I’ll have a headache like the ones you get when the weather changes.”

  “I sincerely hope not,” she said, steadying him. “Those are awful.” Her gaze traveled to Johnny. “I’m glad he was able to help, too.”

  “Yes. He’s resourceful. Like you. Although I have high hopes we won’t have need to test either of you further.” He eyed the bounty hunters as his friends carried their limp bodies out into the yard. “Hopefully, this will put an end to the vendetta.”

  “And if not?”

  He tucked her into the crook of his arm and pulled her closer, making Annabelle feel more loved than ever before. “If not, we may choose to take Elias’s advice, change our names and emigrate. I had considered it in the past, before Chief John Ross convinced me to join him as an emissary to the federal government.”

  “Why? What’s the advantage to moving to a new place when you don’t have to?”

  “Getting choice of the best available land, for one. And escaping the tribal political disagreements here. There is already a large contingent of Cherokees in Arkansas and Oklahoma. We wouldn’t be going into uncharted territory.”

  “But, this is your home,” Annabelle reminded him.

  Charles shook his head. “My home is wherever my family is. Wherever you and Johnny are. That’s all that matters.”

  Annabelle had absolutely no urge to argue so she emulated Naomi in the Book of Ruth and said, “Wherever you go, I will go. Your people shall be my people.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Charles’s announcement that they were planning to leave New Echota for good stirred up a hornet’s nest. His mother blamed Annabelle no matter how often he tried to explain. Elias and Harriet argued about whether or not they would be safer among trusted friends in Georgia. Chief John Ross accused Charles of abdicating his responsibility to the tribe. And Johnny stopped speaking to everybody as soon as he realized Charles and Annabelle intended to try to take him with them as their adopted son.

  Frustrated by his lack of success convincing anybody he was doing the sensible thing, he went looking for Annabelle and found her upstairs in Harriet’s room. The women were sorting through clothing while Harriet tried to gift his bride with a suitable wardrobe.

  “I traveled from Washington with a
mere two dresses,” Annabelle was arguing as he knocked on the open door. Her instant expression of delight at seeing him warmed his heart.

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  “Charles!” She looked past him. “Is Johnny with you?”

  “No. Sadly.”

  He took Annabelle’s hand and held it gently while adding, “I did all I could. The council refuses to let us take him when we are not an official man and wife.”

  “They’d rather place him with someone like John and Margaret Eaton? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Nevertheless...” Seeking to distract her, he gestured toward the pile of clothing arrayed on the bed. “If you are planning to take all that with you we will have to travel by wagon.”

  “It’s my fault,” Harried chimed in. “I want her to be the best dressed new arrival in Arkansas.”

  Chuckling, he gestured toward the pillow where Rosie lay. “I suppose you’ll insist on taking that, too.”

  “Of course.” Annabelle released his hand and scooped up the precious memento, cradling the way she had as a child. “Rosie has been with me for as long as I remember. She even has my initials embroidered on her.”

  Harriet joined her. “You’ve told me that before. Let me see.”

  Charles paid little attention to the two women fussing over a doll until he saw Harriet’s eyes widen.

  “What?” Annabelle asked.

  Instead of answering directly, Harriet said, “Charles. Come here. Look at this.”

  He waved her off. Men did not concern themselves with childish women’s toys.

  Harriet was not to be deterred. She bustled over to him, grabbed his sleeve and practically dragged him to Annabelle and the doll.

  At first, all he saw was lettering. It was when he began to study the leafy floral pattern surrounding the initials that he saw what the other woman did.

  His jaw dropped. He looked from the doll to Annabelle and back to the doll. “Where did you get this?”

  “I told you. Myra repaired it for me when I was very young and embroidered it so I would know it was mine.”

  “She told you to keep it, always, didn’t she?”

  Annabelle was frowning, looking puzzled by all the fuss. “I suppose she did. All I can remember is being positive Rosie was mine and would always be with me.”

  The thrill he felt was indescribable. Not only was the design familiar, the seamstress had added enough detail to remove all doubt. This was a wild potato vine, a symbol of a Cherokee clan. They finally knew they were free to marry!

  Leading Annabelle to a boudoir chair and urging her to be seated, Charles dropped to one knee in front of her. He knew there were unshed tears in his eyes and blinked them away as he took her hands. The precious doll lay between them in her lap.

  “There is no need to wait for letters from the Eaton servants who knew you long ago,” he said tenderly. “You are from the Wild Potato clan. Nothing stands between us anymore. We can be married in a Cherokee ceremony.”

  “What?”

  “It’s all right there, on your doll. Your initials and the insignia of your clan.”

  “I—I thought that was just pretty decoration.”

  “As would most people,” Charles explained. “Carrying your heritage with you that way kept you safe as well as identifying you when you needed to know. Myra was a wise woman.”

  “She loved me very much,” Annabelle told him as she began to weep silently. “Are you sure this is enough proof?”

  “It is for me. I will present the information to the council. I am virtually certain they will approve.”

  He picked up the doll and drew Annabelle to her feet to stand with him. His voice lowered, softened. “Will you marry me again? Be my Cherokee wife?”

  A nod was enough. He sealed their pact with a kiss.

  * * *

  Annabelle could hardly catch her breath. She paced the porch and fussed until she saw Charles galloping toward the house. He reined in his horse and leaped to the ground. The doll was clutched in his gloved hand.

  She met him at the steps. “Well?”

  “You are Cherokee.”

  Annabelle threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I am so glad.”

  Lifting her face to him she accepted his thrilling kiss. When he ended it and set her away she was confused. “Where are you going?”

  Charles grinned broadly. All he said was, “Hunting,” but thanks to the lessons Harriet had been giving her, Annabelle knew exactly what that meant. She, too, had preparations to make.

  * * *

  They met in the council house seven days later.

  Dressed in simple calico, Annabelle entered the room with a group of unmarried women, plus Harriet who would act in place of her mother, and Elias who would take the part of a brother. Together, they approached the fire to be blessed by the priest along with all the wedding guests, including Reverend Worcester and his wife.

  Charles wore a customary ribboned shirt. Sali, clad simply instead of in white man’s finery, approached Charles on the side of the room where the men had gathered and handed him the venison roast and a new blanket.

  Although she knew what was supposed to happen next, Annabelle was so nervous she was afraid she would drop the special gifts Harriet was about to give her for the exchange: an ear of corn and another blanket.

  Everyone else returned to their places.

  Annabelle held tight to her blanket and corn. When the room quieted and she saw Charles start to walk slowly toward her, she stepped out, too.

  This day had been so long in coming she wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his strong arms and never let go.

  Meeting his intense gaze she was nearly overcome. No matter how many times he expressed his love, this was the moment she would remember best.

  Mouthing a soundless, “I love you,” Annabelle joined him, took his folded blanket and laid it with her own, then handed him the corn.

  Smiling gently, he gave her the roast.

  Blue blankets were draped over each of them and singing began. They shared a simultaneous drink from a special wedding vessel. Then the first blankets were removed by the priest and replaced with a single one that was white. He raised his hand as if bestowing a Christian benediction and proclaimed, “The blankets are joined.”

  The room erupted into a shouting, cheering celebration.

  Annabelle and Charles were deaf to the commotion. They only had eyes, and hearts, for each other.

  They joined hands and threaded their way through the throng. Johnny was waiting aside for them. His expression seemed less guarded than before so she assumed he was growing to accept her. At least she hoped so, since he was to become their son as if he had been born thus.

  Charles approached with Annabelle and knelt down to face the boy on his level. “You have a Cherokee mother and father now. Why are you acting sad.”

  Johnny averted his gaze.

  Charles objected. “We will have none of that, son. When your mother or I ask you a question, you will answer.”

  The child’s blue gaze darted to her before returning to Charles.

  “I mean it. We are married. Twice. And we are your parents. You will answer me.”

  Tears filled the child’s eyes and overflowed, making Annabelle wish she could intervene, dry his cheeks and give him a mother’s hug for comfort. As he finally began to speak, however, it was all she could do to subdue her bubbling humor and keep from embarrassing them all.

  “I don’t want to be a potato,” Johnny whined loudly. “I want to be a wolf.”

  Charles began to chuckle, then laugh, then roar. All around them, members of the other clans who had overheard the boy joined in.

  That was too much for Annabelle and she, too, laughed u
ntil she cried. Sali, who had been wiping a different kind of tears from her eyes, was hiding her amusement behind a handkerchief and clearly enjoying the moment as much as they all were.

  Charles stood, drew both mother and wife to him and kissed each on the brow. “I, too, have enjoyed being in the Wolf clan but I will make this sacrifice for my Wild Potato clan wife.”

  Filled with joy, yet barely recovered from the tension leading up to the ceremony, Annabelle allowed her spirits to soar and replied, “I suggest you stop worrying about the potato part and start paying closer attention to the wild.”

  Sali patted Charles’s cheek, then smiled over at Annabelle and said, “Welcome to the tribe, daughter. You will do well.”

  Annabelle had no doubt she was right. God had answered her prayers with more blessings than she had dared dream. She didn’t have to go to Tennessee or wait for answers to her letters to find out who she really was. Right here, right now, she had a family, friends and relatives who cared about her.

  She belonged.

  Finally.

  * * * * *

  Dear Reader,

  This story takes place before the disastrous Trail of Tears, as the forced removal has come to be known. Instead of being a single event, however, it took place over time, ending with a final push in 1838 to oust those individuals and tribes who had refused to migrate west.

  To make matters worse, there were warring factions among the Cherokee that each claimed authority to legally sign treaties and make promises on behalf of all. Both sides resorted to violence. The result was a painful split in the tribe and a loss of credibility in Washington.

  I now live in the part of Arkansas that one of the routes, Benge’s Trail, passed through. That’s what caused me to begin this book and travel to visit the Cherokee Museum in North Carolina. I highly recommend it (Cherokeemuseum.org).

  Almost all the characters in this story are actual historical figures, including the boy Johnny and the way he arrived in Washington. I have fictionalized his life, and those of others, while keeping the basic facts as true to the written record as possible.