“Not all women are happy to see husbands come home,” he said and walked in another direction.
“Huh?” Jesse asked, but he was alone again.
CHAPTER 18
Lesson Learned
Despite that memorable encounter, Adelaide didn’t stay away. She always seemed to be waiting for him, though it didn’t exactly feel that way. It was like whenever he looked for her, she just appeared, her soft, forlorn figure like a breath of air on a sweltering August day. He wondered at the courage it took for her to wait like that, since she obviously had such a fear of men. Then again, maybe it was out of desperation. They were the only two white folks in the village. Maybe she just needed a little something to bring back memories.
Except memories, with her, were apparently so fragile she didn’t share many of them. Sometimes she said little bits and pieces about her sister Maggie, and maybe remembered this and that from their old life, but not much more. And most of the time, she berated herself afterward for having said anything. He wanted to know about her, but he was never sure whether he should bring up the subject or not. Sometimes being around Adelaide made him so edgy, so nervous, he hardly knew what to expect, and that wasn’t like him. Jesse was used to being in charge of everything and everyone around him. Everyone but his father, that is.
He gnawed on a twig, cleaning his teeth, enjoying the satisfying crunch when he bit down. He sniffed and watched a couple of dogs chasing each other around, tried to distract himself from ugly recollections of his former life. Guess he wasn’t so great with memories, either.
He’d have to come up with some new ones. Should he give up on his plan to escape? Would it make any sense for him to stay in the village with the noisy whooping warriors? He’d surprised himself by toying with the idea lately. Life was relatively good here. He ate better, laughed more, even had what he might call friends.
But no. No matter what the People said, no matter what crazy notion they had about him, Jesse wasn’t a Cherokee. He was a white man, and that meant he belonged in a white-man’s world.
Except he wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. The only white-man’s world he’d ever known had been the one in which he and his father had lived. But if he left here, there was no way he was going back to Thomas. He wasn’t sure where he’d go; it didn’t matter as long as it was far from the old man.
He could stay. They’d made him welcome. After all, Adelaide was here. He enjoyed her company more than he’d expected, and the idea of carrying that further stirred a craving in his belly. But now things were different. Especially after she’d shown him his kisses weren’t going to get him anywhere. So he wasn’t about to stay here on her account.
No. He didn’t belong here. He’d get out at the first opportunity, run the other direction.
Problem was, he couldn’t seem to make himself forget about Adelaide. Couldn’t drop the feel of her, the way her eyes softened when they looked at him—most of the time, anyway. They didn’t do that for anyone else, as far as he’d seen. Maybe she’d come with him when he left. Maybe they could escape together.
He’d seen her head off in the direction of the river earlier, a basket hung over one arm. Jesse stooped under a low-hanging branch and stepped over a log, then straightened and followed the trail toward the sound of rushing water. He’d dropped the stick from his mouth aways back, and now he spat a bug off his tongue.
She sat on the edge of the river, in the shade of a willow. Its weeping branches seemed even more limp than usual, suffering in the heat. The songbirds were quiet, saving their strength. They’d come out later, like they did first thing in the morning, singing loud enough to wake the dead. Ah, there she was. Her profile was clear but dark, and he couldn’t spot the distinctive blond of her hair in the shadows. When he got closer, he noticed she had left it untied that morning, and it hung loose, reaching the small of her back. She sat facing the water but frowning at the leather she was sewing, paying no attention to his approach. He didn’t want to startle her but didn’t have much choice, since she seemed oblivious and he wasn’t about to turn around and go back.
“Adelaide?” he said quietly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed softly, clutching the soft leather in a ball against her chest. Moccasins then. Too small to be a tunic.
Her eyes adjusted, the startled flash warming to recognition. “Hi, Jesse. Do you need something?”
“Just a little company,” he said, then gestured at a spot in the shade beside her. “May I?”
She smiled and nodded. They sat in awkward silence for a few moments, neither of them moving, until Adelaide eventually lowered her hands and searched for her most recent stitch. She frowned at the leather again, then her brow cleared when she spotted it. She pierced the leather and pulled the thong through.
“Moccasins?” he asked.
“For Kokila,” she said quickly.
“Good of you.”
“Hers are worn out.”
He nodded, then sat quietly for as long as he could stand it. “Oh, hey. I almost forgot,” he said, deciding to go for a nonchalant approach. He reached into the small leather pouch at his waist and pulled out the handful of beads: two dozen, all blue. “I brought these for you. I figured you could use them.”
She peered into his palm, then her eyes opened wide and she blinked up at him. “For me?”
“Uh-huh. I figure you’ll have more use for them than I would.”
In fact, he was rather proud of the trade he’d arranged, bringing one of the other women a couple of fish so she’d give him a few beads. He knew Adelaide liked sewing those things, putting them on tunics, moccasins, whatever needed prettying up. He held the beads while she prodded at them, studying them carefully. Ignoring her resistance, he took her other hand and turned it palm side up, then poured the little beads into her hand. She examined them a moment longer, then slipped them into her sewing bag.
“That’s very nice of you, Jesse.”
“Yeah, well.” His smile went a little crooked. “I can be nice.”
She smiled. “Maybe I’ll use those in a pair of moccasins for you, if you’d like.”
He looked at his own, black from plodding through the dirt, fraying around the edges. “I’d appreciate that. I’ve just about worn these out.”
She sewed a few more stitches, and Jesse gazed out at the rushing stream. How the hell did this girl make him so nervous? Did he have the same effect on her?
“Hot today,” he tried. She smiled serenely and kept sewing. No, she didn’t appear to be as nervous as he felt.
“Aw, hell,” he muttered, and she glanced over, startled. “Sorry. It’s just I always think of things I wanna say, until I’m actually with you. Then I can’t seem to remember a single thing.”
“Maybe you’re thinking too much in Cherokee,” she teased. “Can’t remember the English words.”
There was another reason he’d wanted to talk with her, and this was as good an opening as any other. “Ha! No chance of that. I just hope it’s good enough for the powwow.”
The Cherokee had decided they trusted him enough to ask him to attend a powwow with Ahtlee. He was to be their translator. A lot of the Cherokee spoke a fair bit of English, but it was important that the details of this meeting be understood. They didn’t want any fast talk coming from the settlers’ side. None that they didn’t catch, anyway. He recognized the invitation was an honour, or at least a symbol of trust, being asked to do that. And he had to admit he was flattered. They could have brought Adelaide to translate instead of him, since her Cherokee was so fluent. Then again, she wouldn’t have left the village without a fight, and Jesse would have stood up for her, so he would have ended up going anyway. The idea of translating in front of all those people was intimidating, but he didn’t have much choice.
“You leave for that tomorrow, right?”
He nodded.
Her
needle paused, then pierced the leather again. “You’re still planning to run?”
“Not at the powwow.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said quietly.
He shrugged. “How can I stay here? What is there here for me?”
She lowered her hands to her lap and blinked at him. “Well, there’s lots of things. Lots of reasons to stay. I bet you eat better here, for one.”
He’d give her that. He plucked a long strand of grass, slid it between his teeth and worried it a bit while he considered what she had said. “Yeah, I guess that’s right. But other than that—”
“There’s me,” she blurted and turned an immediate crimson.
Jesse nearly choked, taken entirely off guard. “What—”
Her back was straight as an arrow, her hands flat on the grass on either side of her. As if she were anchoring herself there. The moccasin rolled over and away from her hand, a forgotten prop. She glanced away, but the breeze lifted the hair at the back of her neck, confirming his suspicions. Miss Adelaide blushed for him? Well, now.
“Huh. And there I was, thinking you couldn’t stand the sight of me.”
“Did you? Do I give that impression?” She shook her head, looking concerned. “Sure, you can aggravate a person, but I don’t hate you.”
He grinned. “Well, that’s better than a kick in the head at least.”
“I mean,” she said, blinking furiously, the red in her cheeks even deeper, if that were possible. “I think we’re friends, aren’t we? I mean, sometimes we talk, and . . .” She stopped, eyes wide, words apparently gone.
Jesse’s smile peeked out then, slow and intrigued. It was the same smile that had worked on girls for just about as long as he’d had teeth. “Well, now,” he said slowly, his voice dropping to a smooth, deep rumble. “I’d have to say yeah. You and I are friends.”
The red was starting to drain from her cheeks, leaving her awfully pale. Then he noticed the hand holding the sewing needle had started to vibrate. Jesse shook his head, shocked at how quickly this girl could change direction. A man could get dizzy around her. He sat up straight.
“Hell, Adelaide. Calm yourself. I’m not gonna do anything to hurt you. You know that, don’t you? You don’t need to get so worked up.”
Her stare lowered to the grass between them, where her fingertips grasped at the blades. “I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know why I do that. It’s the strangest thing. One minute I’m all right, the next I’m a mess. It’s just that I . . . I . . .”
He had no idea if it would help or hurt, but Jesse did the only thing he could think of, gently laying his hand on hers. He was shocked at the coldness of her skin. It should have been warm like his in this heat. Her muscles tensed under his hand, but she didn’t pull away. Taking this as encouragement, he curled his fingers around hers, and with a barely audible sigh, she let him. He turned toward her, willing her to meet his eyes, to read the reassurance he offered. Eventually she blinked shyly up at him, and he took a deep breath, keeping his mind clear for her.
CHAPTER 19
A Question of Trust
Through Jesse’s experience with women, he’d learned a few things. The most important one, in his opinion, and the one that definitely applied here, was that women could be a lot like horses.
There are two methods a man can use to break a horse, but only one for Jesse. Restraining them, blindfolding them, and whipping them into submission usually worked, but that resulted in an angry, fearful, unwilling ride, sometimes a wasted animal altogether. Some even died during the process, and Jesse thought that though the poor creatures’ bodies were beyond help at that point, it was actually their hearts that had broken in the end. That was his father’s approach, the way a lot of men he’d grown up with believed it should be done, the way Jesse’d been taught.
But Jesse had seen a man once, fragile and old as dust, bring in an animal the others would surely have ruined. He’d heard stories about the crazy old horseman. The others joked about him, but even then Jesse heard a hidden respect inside their gibes. Jesse had wanted to witness the man working his magic, so he’d hidden in the barn, watching a three-year-old filly prance, her hind legs kicking out unpredictably between steps. Her eyes rolled with nerves, and the sweat that completely covered her black coat shone in the sun, despite the dust she stirred up under her hooves. Foam fell in soft balls from her lips every time she snorted.
The old man had simply waited, leaning on the fence, a rope dangling harmlessly between his fingers. He’d hummed a bit, spoken softly to the horse as if she were a lady friend. It took at least an hour for the filly to come to terms with her captivity, then to eye this strange man with more curiosity than fear. Eventually he pulled an apple from inside his shirt and took a noisy bite, then tossed the rest of it so that it rolled to a stop a few paces away from his feet. Puzzled, she’d taken a couple of reluctant steps toward him, then stopped and glared. As human an expression as Jesse’d ever seen. Eventually, she took a couple more. A second bitten apple landed in the dirt, a short distance from the first one. When she got to within a couple of feet of the old man, she lowered her head, snorted at the first apple, then sucked it between her lips and chomped loudly on the sweet fruit. A half step more, and she’d swallowed the second.
Jesse watched, rapt, sure the man’s rope would fly any second, but it did not. In fact, nothing happened. So the horse came closer. The man kept talking, telling her what a pretty girl she was. He pulled out another apple and took a bite, still talking. Then he held out the rest of it on his palm in invitation. When her muzzle touched the wrinkled old hands, he didn’t move, only waited for the apple to be accepted. Slowly, slowly, the man’s other hand reached her cheek and caressed the coarse hairs there. By the end of the day, the horse followed the old man everywhere, seeming more content with him than she was on her own. Jesse wanted that kind of horse when he could afford one.
The old man had known he was hiding there, of course. Pretty difficult for a man to stand motionless for that long and not sense everything around him.
“You can come on out now, boy,” he said eventually. His voice was a little tougher now. No cajoling needed for Jesse.
Jesse, disappointed to find out he hadn’t been invisible, stepped sheepishly out of the barn. “Sir?”
“You see what I did there, boy?”
“I did, sir.”
“Think you can do that?”
“Sure would like to,” Jesse admitted. “She’s a pretty thing.”
The old man’s face relaxed a bit, the deep crevasses of old age smoothing as he turned toward the mare. He stroked the smooth neck. “She is that.” He looked back at Jesse, and the wrinkles returned. “Don’t you never treat a horse with nothing but kindness. You do that, and she’s sure to take care of you till the end of her days. Just like a woman, boy. You remember that.”
Jesse’d had a horse like that once, when he was seventeen. He bought her wild at the market, using every penny he had. She was a pretty bay filly that constantly tossed her head with frustration, snorting angrily at everyone and everything around her. When he’d gotten her home, Jesse’d taken her out to the far paddock, where the other men wouldn’t come. At first it was hard to resist following the lessons he’d been taught early on. He wanted nothing more than to leap on the horse, force her to set still under him, accept him as her master. But he’d seen too many horses ruined that way, and he liked the look in this one’s eye. Smart girl. Jesse had the ability to wait it out, the patience his father said came from Jesse’s mother. It obviously hadn’t come from dear old dad, whose temper flared like the stomp of a hoof: unpredictable, sharp, and crushing.
Jesse spent two days doing what he’d seen the old horseman do. He could still remember the feel of his own mare’s soft muzzle when it finally pressed against his hand, the hot puff of breath as she sniffed for threat, the wet lips claiming the app
le as her prize. He’d called her Breeze after that, because in the dry, baking heat, he could think of nothing more beautiful than that. Jesse had never been anything but good to her, and she had come to him at the slightest invitation. Man, that filly could run. And he was right. Breeze was smart.
But she hadn’t been able to outrun Thomas Black, whose own horse went lame at an inconvenient time. Thomas and the boys had needed to go out for some reason, and Thomas had taken Breeze instead. Jesse was working in the fields, oblivious to her absence when Thomas rode her straight into a gopher hole. Furious, and unable to admit it was his own fault, Thomas stomped home and demanded Jesse go back out and put her out of her misery. Claimed it was Jesse’s horse, Jesse’s responsibility.
Jesse had always feared and disliked his father. But on that day, his feelings grew to include hate. The way Thomas hated Indians was how Jesse hated Thomas. He knew he couldn’t leave Breeze out there alone, dying slowly, attracting predators. So Jesse borrowed another pony and headed out to where his beautiful mare lay alone in the grass, her dark, sweat-soaked side rising and falling with exertion. She had given up the fight and no longer screamed as he’d known she would have, but her massive body trembled with shock. Jesse couldn’t say anything to her, not when she was like that, though he knew that’s what she needed most at that moment. Some kind word from her friend. But he felt too weak with grief. He saw the pain and pleading in Breeze’s dark eyes, and something hardened in his chest. It was as if she knew what had to be done, and she was giving him permission.
“Yeah, Breezie. I’m your boy.” He cleared his throat and shoved a bullet in the rifle, then took a deep breath, eyes closed. When he looked again, she seemed calmer, knowing he was there to help. It was hard for Jesse to aim with the gloss of tears flooding his vision. It was even harder to walk away when it was all done.
Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) Page 12
